The Master's Muse
by anisurnois
Summary: When innocent and kind Anastasia Steele receives some news that forever changes her life, she comes at the crosshairs of one unyielding law, an irresistible proposal, and two men. Will Ana's new tragic circumstances change her bargaining power with the enigmatic chilling Christian Grey? Or will she choose a safe goodbye with the one man who always understood her?
1. Chapter 30 - A Glimpse of Christian Grey

A/N: Reviewers, Readers, Followers, Favorites... so many of you have asked for a glimpse inside CG's head and until the revelation of his memory and PTSD, I couldn't because it would have given it away. But now that the secret is out, I am posted a snippet of his mind. This is the day he first sees Ana and the painting. I'm sure you all have an image of CG because he is so commanding and appealing a presence. I tried to give you something that you will like and I hope you do. Here are some answers to questions I anticipate: 1) Is CG still wanting Ana as a sub? No. Once he realized who she was and started getting drawn to her beyond just this initial meeting, he wanted more. 2) Is Larissa in this story, Jane Doe? No. Jane Doe will be revealed in due time. 3) When was the first time CG saw the paintings? - In this chapter, on the same day that Ana got her visa denial.

I so hope you like it. As always, thank you in advance for your support! xoxoxo, Ani

**DAVID AND GOLIATH**

_Please listen to the Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven before reading. Eyes closed._

Moonlight Sonata. C-sharp, minor. Beethoven. Five minutes, 31 seconds. Moon, light, moonlight, music, music box, crystal, shaped like a piano, engraved inside "For the love of my life for the love of her life, you'll be a great mom." Mom. I wake up.

I don't open my eyes. I don't have to. I know where I am. I'm sitting on the white modern sofa, facing the fireplace of the penthouse of the Four Seasons Hotel in Seattle. Behind me is the glass wall, behind the glass wall is Elliot Bay. In my ears, I have the ear pods from my iPhone, set to wake me up to the sonata at precisely 2 minutes and 54 seconds.

With my eyes closed, I wait for the sonata to finish. The beast in my head is already awake, waiting. 1984. Moon. Window. Beach. Sand. Woman's silhouette. Walking away. Don't go there, Grey. The sonata ends. And images, tastes, and sounds shift like rolodex cards. I know enough to keep my emotions out of it by now. But when I wake up, there are always facts and data waiting there – no doubt because of some mysterious process inside the black box or the subconscious that catapults them into conscience when I'm asleep.

Example. Today, May 7, 2012. Eight years ago today, I graduated from UW. Summa Cum Laude. Fucking ridiculous. They should have given it to someone who actually had to work hard. My mother, red suit, Chanel No. 5. Giles, stoic in his uniform, nods like he did in May 1998 for my high school graduation. My father wearing Drakar Noir and a blue paisley tie – what the fuck was he thinking. The memories move like dominos, one pushing the other.

Come on, Grey, focus on here and now. I'm wearing my Armani trousers, nothing else. Cock? Tamed. Body? Still wound up. Brain? Fucked up as always, maybe even worse. The gas fire is still on in the fireplace. 7.2 million was a good deal for the penthouse. Much better – and cheaper in the long run – than continuing to have this place on hold 24/7 for the fuck of the hour…or the night.

Case in point, Larissa Forteskaya. She is in the master bedroom, asleep. Closed though my eyes still are, I see her. Blonde hair, blue eyes, full lips, 5'10'', about 120 pounds, tits size 34C, Brazilian wax. Beautiful. And absolutely average. I have no attachment to her in any form. Bluntly, my interest died the moment I came inside her. The first time, that is. By the third time, it was sheer biology. I was backed up. I needed release.

And yet, Larissa Forteskaya, I will always remember you. As little as you mean to me, your voice – with its Russian accent – will be there when I am 70 – assuming I live that long – saying "Oh fuck, yes, yes, harder, harder, oh my fucking God, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming." I'll remember your slack mouth, your strange high-pitch laugh, and the slightly tangy smell of your cunt. I will remember that you agreed this was a one-time only and that you know I won't be here when you wake up. And I'll remember that you don't give a shit about that, just like I don't. You're here for the good life for an evening and I am here because I needed a fuck and because I'm addicted to the idea of finding something that will hold me even though I know the whole effort is fucking useless. That's because I have an all-eating monster inside my head, which will devour everything about you whether I want it to or not. It's called eidetic memory and it's a real whore. Exactly so, Larissa Forteskaya. Exactly so.

And with all that, to no one's surprise, least of all my own, I feel nothing after fucking you, just like I feel nothing after I fuck any other woman. Nothing except boredom and a not-so-insignificant amount of disgust with myself. Why boredom, Larissa? Because I have seen something like you 46 times. That's not my total number, just the number that is a version of you. Same tan, same bleached blonde look, even your lip gloss I have tasted 11 times – it's Yves Saint Laurent Gold Gloss, isn't it? Why do I know? Because I have seen 11 women apply it and reapply it in my presence. Then, it's the same inane questions, what do you do, how much money do you make, oh my God that's so awesome, are you married? Fucking old.

Why disgust? Because it's not your fault. You've done well for yourself, with your college degree in fashion design. You've got a happy attitude, nothing to escape from, you haven't seen death or loss except apparently your cat that died last month.

No, the problem is with me. For as long as I can remember – and that's a fucking long time – I have been on a rampage for something new even though I know that at first sight, new will become old for me. It's a penance, trying to forget some things only so that I can remember others. I don't know why I still try. As Einstein said, the definition of insanity is to do something over and over again and expect a different result. I guess I'm insane.

Well, at least I am not at home. I try not to add any more memories to my home than I absolutely have to. There is a reason my home is sterile white. Very little association with anything else, the literal carte blanche. The only exception I make to my no-home rule is my subs. Not that I have been getting them recently. I get them to relieve violence during the demons, not boredom.

Wait… Maybe I should get a sub to relieve boredom. Instead of whips, I'll give orders only. Today, you will be Jane Eyre. Today, Anna Karenina, minus the suicide. Today, Elizabeth Bennett. Those were women. Fuck, that's a brilliant idea. Why haven't I done that before? It would take care of boredom… Fuck me! I'm doing it. Subs of Seattle – fuck that – subs of the world, which one of you can play all these heroines? Jane's kind conscience, Karenina's spirit, Bennett's strength and intelligence… Tall order. She'll have to be extraordinary of mind to pull this off. Fuck, if I do find her, I'll spend good money to go the whole thing. Not the playroom this time. It's gotten fucking old. I'll buy a mansion and change it constantly to fit the time period. For Jane Eyre, it will be Thornfield Hall. For Karenina, it will be Vronksi's estate. For Elizabeth Bennett, I'll do Pemberley. Grey, this is one of the best fucking ideas you've ever had.

All right, I might as well open my eyes. I look at my watch. 4:00 in the morning. I stand and stretch. I down what's left in my Scotch glass. Balvanie. Cheers, Giles! I get dressed, my clothes trailing on the floor to the bedroom and leave. Taylor – my right-hand man - is waiting outside the door.

"Good morning, Sir."

"Good morning, Taylor. I may be forgetting, but I'm sure I told you not to wait."

Taylor laughs. He knows I am not forgetting. "I was hoping you'd change your mind on Ms. Forteskaya and I'd be needed to jump in."

I laugh. He is lying and we both know it. For the penthouse fucks, he waits in case he needs to wake me up from my nightmares. Useless effort since I take care of that by not falling asleep or by sleeping alone with my ear plugs in tuned to the Moonlight Sonata. But Taylor is Taylor, he won't leave me.

In the Four Seasons lobby, there's the same receptionist that has been here for the last 5 years, Gregory Stall, and an idiot heading to the gym already with tight leggings or some shit – his junk for everyone to see. Dude, what the fuck is wrong with regular gym shorts? Now, I have to remember your junk for the rest of my life. Fucking asshole.

I walk to Gregory.

"Leaving already, Sir?"

"Yes."

"Send the usual upstairs in the morning, Sir?"

"Yes, thank you."

The usual is breakfast, day at the spa, shopping spree or whatever shit Larissa and her predecessors want today before they leave.

"Will do, Sir. Have a great day."

I like Gregory. He never really asks questions, he just makes the answers sound like questions.

The valet brings the Audi at a nod from Gregory and Taylor takes the wheel.

"Grey House, Sir?" Taylor is like Gregory too. Few words, knows the answers before I say them, doesn't take up space in my head.

"Yes."

There's no need to go home. I can start work early, finish negotiations with Malaysia, buy my mom' s birthday present even though she is still in London, and then get started on researching my mental sub. Mental Sub? I guess it works. Not that I don't plan to fuck her. If this woman exists and manages the mental fortitude required to pull of these heroines, I will fuck her gladly until the day I die. Or get bored, whichever.

The day goes by in the usual blur. Conference call with Malaysia. Always a cluster fuck. I'm buying three of the country's biggest electronics' companies. Malaysia is strong in computer engineering because Intel has a strong presence there. Every one wants to contract with Intel. This is going to make me a shit ton of money. Not that I need anymore of it. I could quit today and have enough money to last me a lifetime and to keep a small country – say, Albania – afloat for at least 80 years after my death. But winning is a game with me. An addictive game that takes the edge off memories and that has gotten me to the very top. If it wasn't for the game, I'd have told the Malaysian CEOs to go fuck themselves. As it is, I will buy their companies and sell them off to Intel, piece by piece.

I take off at 2 p.m. to buy my mom's present. She's been in an art kick lately. She and my dad are in London in a third honeymoon – they still fuck like rabbits, disgusting. We are on better terms now than we were seven years ago, or even before then for that matter. It was mostly my fault, but they didn't help with their image of the perfect son. They wanted Alyosha Karamazov and got Ivan instead. Not that I blame them. Ever since they adopted me, I gave them nothing but grief. But still, things may have gone differently if they would have worked harder to keep my eidetic memory private than to advertise it to the whole world.

"_What? You haven't heard about Christian? Oh my, let me tell you. He has total recall! Can you believe it? I know. I'm the mother of a genius. Oh, I have no doubt Harvard or Oxford will have him. Cary wants Yale but I think Oxford is better. And Diane Sawyer wants to interview him but he…well… he wasn't very nice to her on the phone. He's always been a prickly kid but I really think the sky is the limit for him."_

I have listened to 3,672 such phone conversations in my life. And that's my mom only.

Taylor drops me off in front of Hyde Art, the gallery of Seattle's fast-rising star, Jack Hyde. He popped out of thin air three years ago and became an overnight Da Vinci. He rarely gives interviews or talks about his paintings. I have to admit, I'm intrigued by the man. As someone with skeletons in my closet, I find similarities in his chosen seclusion. His paintings are not modern like my preferred style but they look alive. He has this smooth brushing technique that is so detailed that at first, you think you are looking at a photo. Mom will like this.

I walk in the gallery and scan it. The beast inside my head eats it up. The only one here is a blonde at a tiny white polished podium. She reminds me of Larissa. Bleached hair, tanned, blue eyes, slightly Botoxed lips, fake tits. She looks up. In three seconds, her mouth will pop open. Three, two, one…yep, there it is. Yeah, yeah, I know. Okay, that's enough now. Any minute. No? Fine. I clear my throat.

She closes her mouth and her posture changes, tits out, back arched, ass out too. Nice but futile. Chances of me fucking this girl are nil. One, she's fake. Two, I know this type. She smells money on me. Three, I'm tired of the game. In fact, I think I might go in a bout of celibacy until I find my Mental Sub. I'm getting on that right after I finish here.

"Welcome to Hyde Art. My name is Kasia Moss. What can I do for you today?" She says. She is speaking strangely. I think she is trying to have a British accent. I remember exactly what various British accents sound like. And I am a sucker for them. I'd fuck the Duchess of Cornwell if she talked during sex. A doubtful premise. But this girl is as American as apple pie.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Moss. I'm Christian Grey. I'd like to peruse the paintings but I'd like to do so alone. Would you mind leaving me?" I have two reasons for this. One, her drooling is annoying as shit. Two, I'm going to have to look at the paintings on the wall and she will hover behind me. And I don't do that.

She looks at me like I'm speaking Martian. Maybe she recognizes the name. I give her my impassive stare or what my mother calls the "Grey hauteur." Kasia gapes some more, blinks furiously, and then remembers her English – her accent slips a little.

"Ummm… yeah, of course." And then she scuttles off. I'm sure she will be back in no time. The moment she disappears, I make a beeline for the painting that caught my eye – or I should say breath – the moment I walked in.

It's a simple painting, but what a masterpiece it is. Plunged into darkness are the flawless jawline, neck, collarbone, and a hint of cleavage of a woman. Her hair is up except slight wisps on her neck. Brunette. The painting is black and white, her flawless skin almost silver and luminous. She looks like she is breathing under my gaze. I squint my eyes and have this sudden image of pressing my lips at the dip of her throat. As such fantasies go, it is my most reverential and most chaste. In fact, it's my first. Usually, I don't get a hard-on over a throat. But there is something so exquisite and virtuous about the woman that I'm afraid anything more than an imagined – not even real – kiss would defile her. The neck curves gracefully to the side: it's both a rejection and an invitation. She is looking away from the painter – away from me. A light shines upon her shoulder. No marks anywhere. Absolutely perfect.

I watch her over and over again. She breathes. There is no other way to describe it. I search the painting for some emotion. There is a melancholic edge to it. A perfect saint in both loneliness and peace. And the peaceful aura she emanates is contagious. The more I look at her neckline, the calmer I feel. The calmness is almost soporific. My eyes want to close and I am drifting. It's not sleep, it's rest. Rest evades me. That's the rule of my life. Not today. I'm sure Hyde painted this woman in black and white and made her unidentifiable so that she could be anyone. But she is singular.

Jack Hyde is a fucking genius to have imagined this. Because there is no way she is real.

I hear the clicks of high heels from the corner. I feel like I've been walked in on something intimate. I turn, and the sight of Kasia is a brutal awakening. A vulgar interference in the perfect bubble of the woman in the painting. I'm pissed. I want to tell her to fuck off but she knows who I am and she's just doing her job.

"Still doing okay, Mr. Grey?" She asks.

I put as much contempt in my voice as possible. "I was."

Kasia looks uncomfortable. I don't care. I turn to the painting, and watch some more. It's imprinted in my memory now for posterity but I am unable look away. It's not so much the skin and cleavage – although they're something else - as it is this lonely-star quality that might brighten or warm you if you stand close enough. She is virtue among sin. I am nobody's virtue – in fact, Lucifer is a more kindred spirit – but in the woman's presence, I feel almost...acceptable.

"Would you like something to drink Mr. Grey?"

_God fucking damn it. Shut the fuck up_. "I did not realize that it is advisable to drink in an art gallery." I say keeping my contempt as thick as possible so she will leave me the fuck alone. I keep my eyes on the painting. I'm buying it. That way I can watch without interruption. Inside my head, for once it's quiet. Rolodex cards have stopped spinning. They haven't felt rest before. Maybe if I buy the painting, rest will continue. And maybe this strange sense of virtue in sin will continue too. Plus, suddenly the idea of anyone else watching Her – why my brain capitalizes the H, I have no fucking clue – is revolting.

"We can have that painting done in color as well. But the artist feels that the black, white, and gray colors allow the real beauty to shine through."

Hmm, that's not a bad idea. Maybe I will commission it in color. I try to picture it. I don't want anyone else to see Her in color. It's a level of exposure so private to Her alone that maybe even I shouldn't see it. Her true colors, as it were.

"Ana! Why are you standing there? You know Jack's instructions." Kasia has lost flirtation – and some of her accent – and she sounds like she is hissing at an offensive character. I turn to see who the unfortunate soul is.

And here, before me, taking two steps in my direction is the most exquisite woman I have ever seen, short of this painting. She looks up at me.

Two things happen at the same time. First, my brain kicks on high-alert like it does when it senses fear or danger. There is no danger here but she has a restrained sadness about her and I have a vision of hiding her behind me, and standing between her and the world. Second, for the first time in my life, my memory stutters. What. The. Fuck.

It's a tiny stutter, but a stutter nonetheless. The rolodex cards spin furiously but come up with nothing. I have never seen her. There is no question about it. But my memory falters like it doesn't want to accept that fact. She looks slightly familiar but I know she cannot be. Odd. I have never had the "looks familiar" feeling. I either know something or I don't. This limbo is… new. The beast in my head sniffs around, looking for its prey. It knows it's here somewhere but it can't see it. Like a blind predator smelling the blood but unable to locate it. Then, the predator gives up and lurks away in familiar waters. It's been only a few seconds. The rolodex cards stop. The stutter ends.

Seriously, what the fuck just happened?

Maybe it's because this Ana is so stunning, she stumped even my brain. She has odd color eyes, almost deep purple. There is something very dignified about her eyes. Like despite her sadness, she is still standing. Her dark, almost black, hair falls in waves down to her waist. Her skin glows, and my memory stutters fractionally again before it becomes absorbed with her full lips that are slightly parted like breathing is costing her some effort.

She looks like she is from another land, from another time. An old movie star perhaps, or someone you might see stepping out of an Austen novel. Both humble and aristocratic. Even her clothes – gray skirt slightly below the knee, pearl earrings – look like something that was fashionable decades ago. But instead of out of date, she looks…relevant.

Who is she? I look at the rest of her body that, until now, had been eclipsed by her impossible face. Fuck. Me. If feminine ever walked the earth, she is it. Her body is vintage too. She has a tiny waist, perfect tits and a petite frame. And just like that, my cock reverts to puberty. It twitches and I have an immediate vision of ripping off her sensible clothes and taking her right here, right now. Jesus Christ. I have to find out who she is. And then I can also figure out why she looks sad. Did something happen to her? Bad break-up? Family trouble? Kasia the whore? She treated Ana like shit. Whatever it is, I will find out and see if I can help her. How hard can it be?

I turn and walk up to Kasia – not much time has passed. That's one good thing about my brain. It's fucking fast. Kasia flutters her eyelashes at me. Save it, bitch. I'm furious. I'm not gallant but for whatever reason the way she talked to this sad Ana pisses me off to no end. I might even get her fired. Catty whore. No doubt jealous because she needs 5 pounds of lip gloss, 10 pounds of tanning chemicals, 15 pounds of bleach, and 30 pounds of silicone to look like an echo of an echo of an echo of Ana… and she still can't.

"I will purchase the painting." I say with as much distaste as possible, and give her my credit card. "Is it part of a series?"

She blushes and mumbles and her hands are shaking. Any fucking time now.

"Umm, no…I mean, yes. Yes, it is. The one you are purchasing is the first. There are three others in the back. Would you like to see them?"

"No. I will buy them." I'm still aware of Ana a few feet from me, to the side.

"Will there be any upcoming paintings from this series?" I ask Kasia. I take a lot more time than necessary to read the Curator Agreement. The same lawyer that wrote the Agreement for the gallery I usually frequent must be providing services for Hyde because there is a typo in the words "equitable remedies" in the exact same spot.

"Yes, I know the artist is working on one more. If you leave your contact information, I can call you when it's finished, Mr. Grey."

In your fucking dreams, Kasia, and even in those, I wouldn't even let you suck my cock. I keep my eyes on the Curator Agreement. "No. I will pre-purchase it today. Double the price if it is finished by the weekend."

I hear a gasp from Kasia's lips. I'm surprised she can move them at all with all that shit on them. I don't look up.

"Ana? Now, please." She barks at Ana.

That's it, I've had it. I give Kasia my most vicious glare and wait for Ana to do her biding. From the corner of my eye I see her scuttle away in her little heels. Don't worry, baby, I'll find you. And we'll fix whatever is making you sad. Then, we can celebrate. Have you heard of a thing called nipple orgasm? Well, it's coming for you. And maybe more. Maybe you will be my Mental Sub. You have the old world look for it. My cock twitches in anticipation. It finds the idea of intellectual fucking even more arousing than the whips and canes. The words fuck one's brains out just took on a new meaning.

When Ana disappears behind the corner and her heels die down, I let Kasia have it.

"Ms. Moss, from the moment I walked into this gallery, you have annoyed me but I tolerated it because I think you're just trying to do your job. But let me make two things crystal clear. One. The chances of me taking you to bed are nonexistent so spare the breath, the lashes, and the fake accent. Two. If this is the way you treat your employees, I will take my business elsewhere and will demand from the Seattle elite that constitute your clientele to boycott Hyde Art. Trust me, it will only take one word from me. In fact, I came here to buy another painting but after what I just witnessed, I will go to a gallery where human beings are not treated like vermin. You make sure you tell that to Mr. Hyde. And tell him I will pay close attention at his treatment of personnel and should I find out that they have been so much as looked at askew, Hyde Art is finished. Now, kindly give me back my credit card, prepare my paintings, and my assistant and I will come back to pick them up when ready. Good day to you."

And with that, I walk out. I feel much better.


	2. Christian POV - THREE WOMEN

A/N: Hello everyone! I've missed you so much and I cannot thank you enough for the tremendous support you gave me and TMM, especially after the last chapter. I have to admit it was really draining for me afterwards to part with TMM and your messages, reviews, and kind words were like a life vest! So thank you! There are too many to mention by name but you all have my deepest gratitude.

I know you have been waiting for a while for an update and answers to your questions. I have received so many messages and emails that I am still going through them for responses. So if I have not gotten back to you, it does not mean I am ignoring you. It just means that the last month and a half damn near killed me. Nothing could have prepared me for the amount of time it takes to edit a story to submit for publication. Let's just say that 670 pages of words and comas takes about 7 hours every day, on top of my day job, to do it. It has been brutal, and there is no end in sight yet. But, while my agent has my most recent round of changes, I sat and wrote some **CG POV,** like I promised. **This is right after he sees Ana at the gallery for the first time. Since it has been a while, I recommend you read (or re-read for some of you) Chapter 30, A Glimpse of Christian Grey. This Chapter picks up right after that**. I hope you like it.

A lot of you have asked what about **TMM 2**. I am waiting for instructions from my agent on what happens with TMM 1 and how we tackle TMM 2. So things are a little in the air right now but as soon as I know, I will post something here and on my blog.

Finally, there is a pinterest board now for TMM with everything from pictures of CG/Ana, their sex toys, their holidays together, Jose, the Rodriguez's, Kate, Calico, the cottage in England, the Marines, Dalton, bedrooms, living rooms, cars, clothes, the Bacci notes, even their poems and videos of the tangos in the story. You can find it on pinterest dot com/anisurnoisf /30-nights-of-snow If FF removes this, just look for anisurnois fanfiction or 30 nights of snow and you will find it.

**A note on this chapter:** my goal is the same as with TMM. To full develop the character, not just to repeat the story from another POV when you have already read it. In this case, I want to show you my CG/Aiden fully, with his darkness, trauma, underlying kindness, passion, and complexities. So this has some new hints and revelations about his world and about events we have seen in TMM. I hope you like it.

As always thank you for always being there for me. I couldn't have asked for a better readership. Feel free to review/ask questions. I promise I am reading and getting back to you any minute i get.

MUSIC for this chapter: 1) Paint It Black, The Rolling Stones, and 2) Adagio for Strings, London Philharmonic Orchestra (this is my favorite).

POEM for this Chapter (this is a new feature, because there is a TMM Poems Book in development): Beautiful Wreckage, W.D. Ehrhart

**CHAPTER 2 FROM CG POV: THREE WOMEN**

_What if none of it happened the way I said?_

_Would it all be a lie?_

_Would the wreckage be suddenly beautiful?_

_Would the dead rise up and walk?_

_- W.D. Ehrhart, Beautiful Wreckage_

Taylor waits outside of Hyde Art, leaning against the Audi. The moment he sees me, he opens the back door and steps away so I can get in. He knows not to close it behind me. The rolodex cards spin furiously at the mere idea. Of all my memories, this is the one I fight the most, but can control the least. I swerve around the thought immediately before all the world goes to shit.

"To Escala, Sir?" Taylor asks as I slide in the back seat and close the door myself.

"Yes, Taylor. Thank you."

Taylor confirms this only out of politeness. He knows that, beyond Escala, Grey House, and the usual business meetings, I avoid going anywhere that may inflict me on a crowd.

"Taylor, I need all personnel records for Hyde Art, within the hour," I say, both to distract myself and to deal with the issue at hand. I have to track down this Ana. For my sake and hers. Obviously something happened to her. Gallantry is not my style but even calloused as I am, I cannot watch something so beautiful shatter. It would be like killing a swan or pillaging a rose. Hopefully, it's only a punk motherfucker who broke up with her. But, since the stars are never on my side – not that I blame them – it is more likely that she is knocked up with twins. That would be a new low, Grey. Fucking someone's pregnant wife. No, she had no wedding ring on.

The relief I feel at this fact annoys the fuck out of me. I draw a line at married women but for this Ana, I would cross it. Fuck, I may have even bought out her husband, Indecent-Proposal style. How I would come back from that, I have no fucking clue. Yes, no wedding ring is best for all involved.

"Sir?" Taylor interrupts my Lothario plotting and I realize I missed his last question.

"Sorry, Taylor, what did you say?"

"Are we looking for someone specific, Sir?" His face is stoic except a small frown between his eyebrows. It's that frown that has earned him a very handsome share of my will. Stoicism I can buy anywhere. That frown, I cannot. It means he is concerned about my safety. To Taylor, everyone from a nonprofit organization asking for a donation to a flirtatious woman is a potential threat. The truth is the opposite, of course. I am the plague and they are the innocents.

"Yes, an Ana," I answer because the frown is getting deeper. "I don't have a last name. Dark hair, purple eyes."

As I describe her, her other-worldly face materializes in my mind. And instantly, the eidetic beast inside my head stutters again.

What the fuck? Twice? I thought the first time was because her beauty stumped my brain but a second time suggests something else. With my memory, every time I think of her from now on, I will feel the same emotions I felt when I first saw her: protectiveness and lust. But there is no reason whatsoever for another stutter now that she is branded in my mind for life. Because a stutter suggests that the beast is not satisfied, that it still thinks it knows her from somewhere.

I picture her again. The beast searches. It knows there is something to find, two points to connect, but it's unable to do it. This is fucking weird. I try over and over again. No change. It's like a tip-of-the-tongue moment. Maybe the beast is slowing down? Fuck. Me. Is that possible?

I almost rip my Armani jacket as I yank out my phone from my breast pocket to call my neurosurgeon, Dr. John Bardon. He has known my brain since I was 7. Every year, we scan the fucking thing to monitor for signs of change. Nothing but nothing. If anyone can explain this, he can.

"Christian?" Bardon answers on the first ring. As he should. I have made him a very rich man over the last 25 years. And because of his studies of my brain, although my name is anonymous, he has written a paper on eidetic memory that is a candidate for the Nobel Prize.

"John, we need to meet. Something has changed."

A long silence follows, as I knew it would. For different reasons, we both have waited for a call like this for a long time. Then I hear furious typing as Bardon pulls up the data from my last PET scan. No need, as I could tell him over the phone but he likes to pound away at that keyboard, especially when he has no fucking clue what is happening. Usually, this kind of delay would annoy the fuck out of me but when it comes to the beast, I know full well that we are all out of our depth.

"What's different?" Bardon asks while pounding away at the keys.

"Hard to explain. It's … ah… stuttering." Now that I say it out loud, I can hear the dismay, or maybe hope, in my voice.

"Stuttering? What do you mean? Like you can't recall something?" Bardon's voice is urgent and low.

"Not exactly. I will explain when I get in."

"I'm clearing my schedule. When was the last time you ate?"

Oh fuck. Another PET scan. I can't eat for the previous four hours before the scan, lest it interferes with the radioactive tracer they inject in my veins to see the activity in the brain.

"At 12:36."

"Good, that's almost four hours. See you soon."

Bardon hangs up. Sensing the shit-storm in the horizon, Taylor turns towards the UW Medical Center in silence, with the frown still between his eyebrows.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. Fucking excellent. The 31st PET scan in my life coming right up. My closed eyelids get a little brighter. The sun must be breaking through Seattle's perma-cloud. Simple, right? Yes, for the normal brain. Here is what mine does with it. The sun breaks through the clouds. Sun. The Sun Also Rises. By Ernest Hemingway. Robert Cohn, Hemingway's character. Opening lines, "Robert Cohn was once a middleweight boxing champion of Princeton." Princeton. March 12, 1987, my first PET scan before Bardon found me. Doctor Cohen, blue eyes, mole on the left of her forehead, is talking with a nasal voice.

"Christian, tell me again what exactly did you hear four days ago at 3:30 p.m. on the radio? Are you sure?" She turns to her research assistant, Hayes, brown eyes, no moles but a small scar on his right ear lobe. "Did you get all that, Hayes?" Hayes: "Got it." Doctor C: "And?" Hayes: "Perfect recall." Doctor C: "Isn't it just amazing?" Me: "Do you mean "he" instead of "it"? Last time I checked I was human but I may be wrong." Doctor C: "Christian, you cute little thing, I was using "it" to refer to your brain." Me: "Whatever. But you just called me 'thing' again." Doctor C: "I meant it as an endearment. Now, let's see if we can talk about the music box you listen to." Me: "If you ask me about that, I'm going to repeat what I heard you say to your husband on the phone yesterday."

God, I was such a shit even then. The rolodex cards spin faster like they do when the memory is particularly gruesome. In response, of its own volition, my mind conjures up the Woman in the painting I saw at the gallery. Probably to re-experience the peace She instilled at first sight. And apparently my brain still insists on capitalizing Her.

She is frozen in a painting, yet, strangely, She floats around the beast, blinding it with the light that shines upon Her shoulder. The rolodex cards slow down…until they finally stop. In the utter silence that follows in my head, there is only one thought that breaks through. A line… _She walks in beauty._

What the fuck is this? This line, this entire poem in fact, is out of bounds for anyone. Some scholars say even Byron himself imagined the woman who inspired the poem because no one could have deserved its words, its fundamental promise. That darkness and light, virtue and sin, past and future, can merge in one being, able to co-exist in balance. And as a result, you are not healed but even better. Unharmed in the first place.

Until now, my mind has reserved this poem only for one woman. And she is not real. The rolodex cards start again but this time, I invite them, hoping they will explain this other lapse in the beast's machinations.

April 17, 2003. Iraq. Zero two hundred hours. A tent. The shamal winds blow sand everywhere. Marshall, alive, is sleeping on his right side, mumbling something Jasmine. Hendrix and Jazzman are awake but silent, their eyes a thousand yards beyond the tent's ceiling, blinking only enough to dislodge grains of sand. Kerrigan is outside, running, in gas mask and full battle rattle. And I, more fucked up than the entire battalion together, write so I don't fall asleep. And so that I can pretend I have something to leave behind. I write letters to a fictional someone. Someone good enough to give me the will to live and precious enough to give me the strength to die. That's the Catch-22 of war. You need something to live for and something to die for. If you miss one or the other, the internal battle will kill you long before combat does.

This is why she was born. To reconcile life and death. I created her on the same night as her son…our son. In my mind, she was 22, my age at the time, which made no sense because our son was born at 14-years old. I had no words for her. So instead I only wrote Byron's poem,

_You walk in beauty, like the night _

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies; _

_And all that's best of dark and bright _

_Meet in your aspect and your eyes: _

_Thus mellowed to that tender light _

_Which heaven to gaudy day denies. _

_One shade the more, one ray the less, _

_Had half impaired the nameless grace _

_Which waves in every raven tress, _

_Or softly lightens o'er your face; _

_Where thoughts serenely sweet express, _

_How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. _

_And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, _

_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, _

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow, _

_But tell of days in goodness spent._

_A mind at peace with all below, _

_A heart whose love is innocent. _

_Christian_

If the other jarheads had seen this, they would have hung me by the balls, saying I didn't really need them anymore. But now that I re-live that first letter to the fictional mother of my son, it makes sense why the beast chose to apply Byron's poem to the Woman in the painting. She, too, reconciles opposites. A body that invites sin but an aura that commands virtue. And both women are dark and light. The one in the painting is plunged into a black canvass but has a light upon her shoulder. The one I created was born in the dead of the night under the dim ray of my flashlight. Both protected me in some form, one from Iraq, the other from my demons. Both inspire peace. And both are nameless and imaginary.

Well, at least this lapse of the beast is solved. But suddenly, I am furious with myself. Why the fuck didn't I bring the painting home with me tonight? Kasia Moss needs time to prepare the other paintings but there is no reason whatsoever why that one should hang on the gallery wall for some other pervert, in addition to myself, to ogle at Her. The idea makes me gag like an MRE – Meal Ready to Eat. Only one pervert per woman, thank you very much, and She already has Hers. Me.

"Taylor, after you drop me off, I need you to go back to Hyde Art and pick up the painting of a woman's shoulder and chest. It's on the right wall, third frame in. Do not leave without it. And make sure it's covered, so no one else sees Her."

"Her? Who are we talking about, Sir?" Taylor's frown deepens and his stoic face slips a little. No doubt, he is certain that his boss has finally lost it. He would be right. I am now referring to a painting as "She," stalking a woman named Ana to save her from some unknown asshole only to replace said asshole with an even bigger asshole, namely myself, I am having a PET scan because my memory thinks it knows this Ana, and the day is not over yet.

"I meant _it,_ Taylor.'' I try to sound cranky because that will calm Taylor down. He knows cranky. This madman talking to inanimate objects, he does not.

He nods, his frown still a fucking canyon, and stops outside of Bardon's neurology lab where my temporal lobe is about to undergo something like an alien anal probing. That's where the bulk of the memory network resides so Bardon gets a hard-on over my temporal lobe.

Sure enough, he is waiting outside, too keyed up to wait in his office like an aspiring Nobelist. Let the circus begin.

"Christian, good Lord, what's happening?" He shakes my hand with both of his.

I indicate for him to walk ahead of me, lest he forgets. He starts walking backwards, rubbing his hands together, a sure sign that he is about to come from the excitement of fucking my temporal lobe. I wait until we are inside his lab, and tell him this little puzzle. He starts to frown worse than Taylor, while scribbling furiously on a notepad.

"And you are sure you have never seen her before?" He asks at last.

"No. Not at all. I see her every fucking morning, she lives next door to me, and delivers my fucking paper. Yes, I am fucking sure. Why the fuck else would I be here, John? For your cerebral probing?"

He laughs, even though I am not joking. "Good point, my apologies. Even neurosurgeons are permitted lapses in judgment when faced with gray matter."

He shuffles closer, syringe in hand, looking like a bald, comical version of Nurse Ratched. I roll up my shirtsleeve so he can inject me with the radionuclide.

"And you think it's her look, not something else about her, that made it stutter?" He asks as the needle breaks through my skin.

"I think so. Not her face exactly, something else." I focus on Ana, instead of the cold, trickling sensation of the radionuclide in my veins.

"Her walk?"

"No. She was standing. The walk didn't come until afterwards."

"So that rules out you having seen her walking from behind. Her voice?"

"She never spoke."

"Her smell?"

"I wasn't close enough to smell her."

"Her name?"

"I have come across 17 Ana-s in my life. Ana Callier, Ana Dover, Ana… anyway, none of them have anything in common with her. She does not look like anyone else. She's got fucking purple eyes, John. Who has purple eyes? Even without eidetic memory, you would remember that."

He nods pensively because he can't argue with that one. "Her clothes?"

I'm shocked to find myself smiling amidst the lunacy. "No. Her clothes were vintage. Almost Victorian."

I've never seen anyone so prim and proper. She was wearing a high-necked, white shirt, and a gray skirt cinched high on her waist and falling below her knees. It's like she has no awareness of her own sex. Probably for the best. If this is the havoc she is wreaking fully clothed, I cannot imagine the devastation she would cause if she _tried_ to seduce someone. I feel uncharacteristically bad for any poor bastard who would cross her path. They would never be the same again. Look at me. I only saw her covered chin to knee and I am getting a fucking PET scan.

"What about the physical surroundings? Anything familiar there?" Bardon keeps going through his process of potential trigger elimination.

"No. First time in the gallery."

"Okay, so we have eliminated environmental triggers." Bardon is talking more to himself than me. "That leaves another option. Emotional trigger. What did you feel or experience when you saw her?"

Fuck. Talking about feelings. In my list of favorite things to do, this ranks right after drinking bleach and shoving shrapnel under my fingernails. At least it will be over quickly because what I felt for this Ana is as new as the rest of it.

"Protectiveness. Overwhelming protectiveness."

Bardon frowns. "Did she seem vulnerable? Perhaps reminiscent of the women in Iraq before the explosives went off? Or your mother? Or –"

I raise my hand to stop him. "Not at all. She looked sad, yes, but not like a victim. Quite the opposite. She looked dignified, like someone slapped her hard but she was turning the other cheek, daring them to do it again."

Bardon is writing more furiously now. Then, he stops and squints his eyes. He gets this look when he is working on a theory.

"If you could pick something similar between _yourself _and her, based on those 20 seconds, what would it be?"

Interesting. Where is he going with this? "If I had to pick, I'd say a sense of loss. She had this restrained melancholy in her eyes that is part of her. Like she is missing something or someone, but is resigned to it."

Bardon keeps writing, squinting even more. How can he see?

"Seeing yourself, in a way? Because of your loss with Marshall and the others?" He asks in a measured, slow tone as if he about to detonate a bomb. He almost is. He knows this topic is off the table.

"Is your point that the memory stuttered because I recognized a piece of myself in this woman?" I put as much sarcasm on my voice as possible. "If that was the case, my memory would stutter anytime I see the other jarheads. They are as similar to me as it can get. That's not the trigger."

Bardon shakes his head side to side. "My theory is slightly different but we'll see how you do in your scan first. Anyway, anything else you felt?"

Oh fuck. Try and explain this with dignity. "Arousal."

Bardon's eyebrows go up. "You said you only saw her for 15-20 seconds." His voice is almost an accusation.

"So?"

He frowns. "Did you achieve an erection in that short amount of time?"

"Yes."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Ah, to be young again."

_Ah, to be young?_ Ah, to be old! And I am not at all sure it had anything to do with my age. My dick acted like an 18-year old, not 32.

"Leave my dick out of this, John. It's the only thing that works right. And to your point, arousal could not have been the trigger either because it came after the stutter and it was rather… bestial even by my standards. So let's scan the beast and get this over with."

He laughs. "Bestial. Interesting choice of word."

"Fuck you, Doctor Phil."

I go lay on the PET scan table. He laughs again, writes down something on his notepad – probably the word "certifiable" – and starts operating the machine.

For a while, all he does is image my brain. Then the questions and pictures start as he records and reads the positron images in the computer. My birthdate, my earliest memory, routes I took as a 9-year old, price of gas on October 3, 1998, boot camp training at MCRD, my M40A1 sniper rifle, phone numbers, even pictures of Elizabeth Taylor who turns up on the Internet as having purple eyes, on and on. Some are vicious, some are kind, and some are irrelevant clutter that takes up space in my head. But none, absolutely none, causes the beast to hesitate. Finally, the testing stops.

Bardon sighs. "Well, that's it. No change at all. No delay in recall. Not even by a fraction of a second. Same speed of recognition, same pulse, same neural conductivity, same frequency of activity. We can eliminate a physical trigger too."

I feared this but I still hoped I was wrong. A part of me will always crave a physical change that will numb things. I stand, unwilling to admit that I am oddly tired.

Bardon, on the other hand, sits, or rather plops down on his chair. He has the face of a pallbearer.

"Spit it out, John. What are you thinking?" I know it's nothing good. Last time he had this look was when he was about to tell me the risks of performing surgery on my brain to modify the memory.

He sighs again. "Well, Chrisitan, short of an environmental or physical trigger, the only possible explanation is psychological." He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to get it.

"I see. In other words, I am fucking nuts and I am hallucinating. Did I get the gist?"

"I wouldn't put it that way. But I think with your trauma, we cannot rule it out."

"She is fucking real. I saw her," I spit out, and snap my teeth together for some control. I feel the first signs of rage, which for me are physical. Burning on my skin. Locked muscles, rigid spine, vibrating lungs. And blood. Boiling blood. Not in my ears or my lungs where most people feel anger. But in my throat, as if it is rises up in flames. I have about five minutes before the rest of the symptoms hit.

"I don't doubt you saw her," Bardon says evenly. "Christian, I am only wondering whether your memory recognized her because you had previously seen her in your head. She seems too… _customized_ for you. This is why I asked whether you recognized a part of you in her. Traumatic hallucinations sometimes replicate our own trauma. And patients do not always remember them. Much like dreams. You said you saw loss in her. Perhaps, she is the reflection of your loss of – "

"Enough."

I hear my voice after I have spoken the word. Reality is slowing down, as the time dilation effect begins. Things move fast but I experience them in slow motion because of the increased adrenaline. I grit my teeth together and remind myself that he is only trying to help. But my face must be something else because he takes a few steps back. I pick up my phone and call Taylor.

"Do you have the personnel files for Hyde Art?" I say, keeping my eyes on Bardon who starts scribbling on his notepad again.

"Yes, Sir. No Ana or anyone remotely sounding like Ana is in those files."

What. The. Fuck. Will the bullshit of this goddamn day ever end? Before I decide to go back to Hyde Art myself, Taylor – bless the man – brings me back to my senses.

"She could be an independent contractor, Sir. I'll keep digging. In the meantime, I have the painting and I'm on my way to pick you up."

"Thank you. Place one of your guys outside of Hyde Art immediately, and have him take a picture of every brunette woman that walks in and out of that building. I don't care if they have to be there all night or all week. Find her!"

"Yes, Sir."

I hang up on Taylor, still glaring at Bardon, who looks at me like I am a patient in denial.

"Christian, all I am suggesting is that we wait and see how things develop but, scientifically, we cannot rule out this option. Let's just - ,"

"Fuck your science. Ana is real," I say, acting exactly like the patient he suspects I am, and storm out. He knows better than to follow me.

Outside, I lean against the brick wall. I try to rid my mind of everything but I cannot. It's one thing to have a beast inside your fucking head. But to be downright psychotic is another. I would expect fear or even relief to have a different universe I can escape to, apparently with impossibly beautiful women, but instead, I feel angry. Really fucking angry, as the rest of rage hits full force.

Tunnel vision, muffled hearing. My muscles vibrate and strain, their bands strangling my veins. In minutes, my limbs will start to shake.

Out of proportion for a doctor simply doing his job, you say? Welcome to the world of defective Marines. The world where a Harley igniting is mortar fire, a leaf falling is a severed hand, and the sun is a fire-pit of burning corpses. Welcome to the world where the only mutiny is the one against the self. The ringing ears, the violent rage, and the fake bravura that you wear on your sleeve to hide the piss in your pants. Welcome to the world where your hands, no matter how many tits you fondle, how many lovely thighs you part, will always remember best the shape of a rifle. In short, welcome to the world where everything, from a whisper to a bullseye, can trigger the instinct to kill.

To be an effective Marine, you need to kill. And you need to know how to live with it. It's this last part I fuck up. Because the first, I have down to an art form. A brutal, mind-raping art form. I have killed many. Too many. Of all the numbers and data I store in my brain, there is one number I do not know. How many have died because of my hand. Eidetic or not, you always remember that first one, maybe the first several. What they looked like, how their bodies reeked with desert stench just as raw as your own, how armed they were, where you shot them, what they said. Some prayed in Arabic. _Bismillah ah-Rahman ar-Rahim_. Some called _Al mout li Amreeka_– death to America. You shoot them all. You yell _Semper Fi_. You spit out the sand that builds in your mouth all day long, and you march away in a single line, 50 pounds of gear feeling like a fucking feather because you bench press hundreds of pounds at night since you cannot fuck. As you walk, the desert takes its revenge, claiming and fucking you, pore by pore. The sand you spit out is now in your ears, in your fucking eyes, your ass, your balls, your cock. The next day, week, and month, you kill some more. Proven insurgents, roadside and suicide bombers, water-poisoners, IED builders. There are only two rules: don't kill civilians and don't kill over pussy.

Then, there is always that first one you are not sure about. The first one you wonder if he was not innocent. You remember him too. But others follow. And slowly, at night, their faces start to blend behind your sand-gritted eyelids. Men, women, children, dogs, even birds that happened to fly the wrong way. Some with precision fire. Some with 0.50 caliber projectiles. Countless with explosives. One with my bare hands. And, above all, one with my failure.

All human life should be equal. But it is not when you have to take it. Because of the ones I have killed, there is one who still lives. Dead enough to be gone, alive enough to be here. He was Marshall to me. Jake to Jasmine. Jacob to his parents. Lance Corporeal to our Gunny. Grunt to others. Jarhead. Leatherneck. Devil dog. Every combat Marine has a Marshall. A platoon mate you carry on your back, on your mind, on your soul if you still have it – I don't. He eats with you, sleeps with you, walks with you. He is in your bed, in the shower, in the gym, in your car. He only leaves you alone when you are fucking. Only for those few minutes when your cum builds in your veins before it fires through your cock. Then he is back. Because he should be here, instead of you. That's why you live for two, eat for two, work for two, fuck for two. You live for him because he is the one you let die, the one you killed.

The earth shakes under my feet, as rage peaks. In reality, it is my limbs that are shaking, because the rolodex cards spin faster, not pictures now but a movie reel.

Marshall, broken. The splatter of his blood smeared on my fucking lips. _How does he taste, sniper boy?_ An Iraqi motherfucker laughs as he tries to push his bloody finger in my mouth. My hands turn into claws and the world disappears. I hear the crack of a broken neck and the whoosh of my knife slicing through skin, and the only thing in my hands is the severed head of one of the insurgents restraining me, his laughter still plastered on his face.

"Sir?"

Taylor. Jason Taylor. Security guard. I am in Seattle, Washington. UW Medical School. It's May 9, 2012. It's moist, not dry. This is rain, not sand. That's a car honk, not a curfew siren. I'm wearing Armani, not Kelvar. Today, I saw a real beautiful woman, not a desert mirage. I saw a saint in a painting, not a ghost. Instantly, I start to calm down. I straighten up, STRAC, Standing Tall Right Around the Clock. I am back.

"Sir, everything okay?" Taylor tries to make eye contact.

"I'm fine. Did you get the painting?" It's fucking madness but I _need_ Her. That was much longer a monologue than I ever allow myself, and I spiraled out of control.

"Yes, Sir. Almost had to drag out Kasia Moss, too. She would not let go, insisting that her specialty is interior design and asking if I was sure that you did not need any help finding a location for the series." Taylor chuckles but his eyes are narrowed as if he is not buying that I am fine.

"Good work, Taylor. Escala, please."

We walk to the Audi, Taylor's steps always in sync with mine, always to the side, never falling back. I slide in the back eat, fixing my mind only on Her. I let her flood my senses, much like the cold air after being locked inside a tank for hours. I don't know how She does it, but that goodness that emanates from Her fights it all. Single-handedly. As if She is some sort of shield. As She did at first sight, She envelops me in Her protective aura, banishing everything, from Arabic cussing to the taste of an MRE.

At Escala, I get out of the car with single-minded focus. I carry Her myself. I take my private elevator, aware of Taylor next to me but unwilling to move my mind from Her for an instant, lest I spiral again. I barge inside the penthouse and go straight to my bedroom.

I lay Her on my bed, with uncharacteristic gentleness. No other woman has been on this bed. For some reason, I hesitate before removing the sheet that covers Her. It is not an undressing because I have seen Her already, but here, in the confines of my bedroom, it feels intimate.

That initial instinct of doing nothing to Her but chastely kissing Her throat, because anything more would defile Her, rules me again. The bed is not the right place for Her. She needs… an altar, a place above eye-level, towards the heavens. A wall. _My_ wall.

I go to Taylor's cave, and dig out his tools. Hammer, nails, leveler. This is not a job for him or anyone else. I pound the nails, feeling some relief in manual work. In the end, I walk back to my bed, where She is still covered. I reach for the sheet, strangely wanting to perform some form of salute before I reveal Her. Then, impatient, riddled with addiction, I remove the sheet in one swift move.

I am stunned again, exactly like I was in the gallery. Not because the beast does not do Her justice. On the contrary, the beast has never replicated anything more perfectly. But because She is here, rather than in my head. And for once in my life, the beast and I join forces. We both want to experience Her as long as possible.

I pick Her up, and hang Her gently on the wall. I step back, sit at the foot of my bed, and watch Her.

I cannot explain Her pull, much less Her draw. I cannot explain the genius that created Her, the chance that brought Her to me, or my absurd, willing captivity. Perhaps I am insane after all. But if She is in the universe my mind is creating, maybe this is the oblivion I have been craving. It is not forgetting, but rather encountering someone so extraordinary that She blows everyone else out of the water.

As I watch Her, something starts to change. My brain starts to transpose Ana's face on the Woman's neck. It's like a jigsaw puzzle, as if the beast is testing whether either the neck or the face fits. I never saw Ana's neck because of her Victorian blouse. I only saw a part of her jawline, two inches perhaps, that was not hidden by the opulent waves of her hair. The beast hovers and sniffs impotently over those two inches of exposed womanliness, but it does not bite.

As Ana and the Woman merge, my body stirs. Byron's poem becomes more relevant than before. Ana's face, her body, even her existence inspire lust, a dark yearning, a familiar pain, and cannibalistic protectiveness. The Woman triggers the opposite: virtue, light, healing, shelter. A feeling of being protected, rather than protective. Yet, somehow, in this one moment, they co-exist. And instead of conflicted, I feel – strangely – whole.


	3. Chapter 3 - REQUIEM

**A/N: **Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your warm welcome back when I posted CG's POV a couple of a weeks ago. I had missed all your voices and kindness. And especially, I had missed the way you talk and connect with my story. It makes the hard work worth it when you are trying to write more while at the same trying to convince a publisher to look at you twice. Not an easy task. And TMM hit a quarter million views and over 63,000 visitors last month. I could not have done it without you! THANK YOU for spreading the word. It has been only your recommendations that did it.

I also wanted to thank you all for supporting me in my decision to remove TMM from FF. There were several story thefts on FF, and I could not take any chances with my original work. So I decided on a compromise: remove the original, but post CG POV for you, as promised. In my blog, thirtynights dot wordpress dot com, you will see the original Aiden POV and the original TMM called 30 Nights - first few chapters. Aiden's POV will continue to be updated, as will be several skipped days from 30 Nights. Thank you **Lulu Price** for the astounding marketing of TMM and for spreading the word and recommending improvements to the blog! And thank you **all my FB girls** for checking in on me and pulling through when I needed you the most.

Also, as an announcement, in my blog, in about a week or so, I will post the **epilogue opening to TMM's Sequel**, and announce the title. Due to lack of security on FF, that snippet will be on my blog only.

And thank you to everyone for following the story on Pinterest - I hope you are enjoying it.

**A note on this chapter:** This continues the story from CG/Aiden POV, and as before, my goal is not to re-tell the story you have read already, but to introduce you to a new life, a new world, and new stories within 30 Nights which you did not see from Elisa's/Ana's POV. This chapter is important for Aiden/CG. I really hope you enjoy it and don't tear up as much as I did.

_Finally, this chapter is for Glenda. Congratulations! The fight is worth it._

_O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!_

_ Earth's returns_

_For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!_

_ Shut them in,_

_With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!_

_ Love is best._

_- Robert Browning, Love Among The Ruins_

_Song: Sail, AWOLNATION_

**CHAPTER 3 (AIDEN/CG) - REQUIEM**

I burst through my office door and turn on the switch that fogs the glass wall. If any man in the great state of Washington – barring those in the penal system, hospitals, or streets – has had a worse week than I, I will personally gift him one fucking million dollars.

One, today is May 12, the day I dread for the remaining 364 days of the year.

Two, the Taiwanese CEO that lied in his financial statement disclosures _and _environmental compliance schedules is dangerously close to learning exactly why a U.S. Marine is the deadliest sentient weapon currently in existence.

Three, if Bardon calls one more time to check on the beast's progress and on any new "visions" of "my little Ana," I will run his balls through a meat grinder. He has called twice a day since Monday. When I stopped answering his calls, the motherfucker contacted my shrink, Dick Fucking Payne, saying that he is concerned the "trauma" is manifesting itself in psychosomatic and hallucinogenic forms.

Four, Bardon may be right. Because today is Thursday and there has been no sign of Ana except where she has now moved in comfortably and propped her feet up like she owns the fucking place: inside my own head. Taylor's henchmen, Ryan, Nelson, and Bradley, have been parked outside of Hyde Art, in eight-hour shifts, 24/7, since Monday. Has she had the decency to grace them with her presence? Oh, no. That would be too fucking easy.

Five, the fourth day of my celibacy is becoming a safety hazard. How monks do this shit, I don't know but I respect them. Usually, I have better control of my dick. But since the sight of the Woman in the painting and of Ana, the traitor has gone rogue and reverted to puberty. I researched Hypergonadism and I think I have it. Because I seem to be suffering from a perpetual hard-on to the point where my fucking couch is starting to look damn sexy.

Having a nude painting of The Woman in front of my bed was not helping so I moved to my guest bedroom, feeling like a fucking fugitive in my own home. When I missed Her addictive calming spell, I dragged my ass back to my bedroom, only to look at Her like a moronic adolescent for hours. I considered a good beat-off session but felt like a fuckslime immediately. Jerking off to Her feels oddly blasphemous. It seems like it's something to do _with_ Her, not _to _Her. So, instead, I am taking cold showers and beating my punching bag to pulp. Cora is buying a new one today. Running is next.

Like most good and true Marines, I am no stranger to horniness. Testosterone runs high in the desert. For no other reason but to keep us alive. When your moral code leaves you, and right and wrong cease to have meaning, you still need to be an aggressive, brutal force. That's where testosterone comes in. I remember we took pride in our testosterone. It did not make us more men – we were men enough, our Government said so. It made us justified men, good men, strong men, smart men, sexy men, oversexed men, well-known men, keep-you-up-at-night men, and any other men our frenzied minds invented as identities instead of realities.

On rest times though, when you are not killing, testosterone does not stop. It burns your cock, that's true, but that's not where you feel its fire the most. You feel it your fucking head. Thoughts turn into fragmented composites of life and fantasy, stripped of all color but brutality. Example. You used to think you could make love. In the desert, you fuck. You used to think of the female body as a holy grail, a mystical something that you felt compelled to compare to water, rivers, oceans, a mass of womanliness that rules you, controls you, owns you. And the more owned you were, the freer somehow you felt. In the desert, the female form becomes mouth, tits, ass, pussy. When you jerk off, you no longer think of a body writhing under you, over you, next to you, in front of you. You close your eyes, cock in hand, under the blistering sun, and see only an orifice, shaved of course, wet somehow even in Iraqi desert that dries the blood inside the vein, let alone cum. You see pussy, you smell pussy, you hear pussy, you feel pussy. Just pussy. Particles of sand grind against your cock as you stroke, like a flinch in a blank stare. You stroke faster. The sun beats down on you with the same brutality you beat on yourself. Faster. We had a contest once about who can jerk off the fastest. 30 seconds now. Faster. _Fuck me_, she screams. _Fuck me. Harder. _ 32 seconds. You grit your teeth to stay silent so the other jarheads don't hear even though they know. 33 seconds. Lock your muscles, stand still so it looks like you are simply pissing. 34 seconds. Boom! And that's combat jerk for you.

_"How fast was it this time, Grey?" Marshall asks as I emerge from our spank shack._

_"34 seconds. Beat that, Marshall."_

_"Motherfucker, I will beat it twice if you stop that pun shit."_

Until that day, May 2, 2003, Marshall had the jerk-off record for 36 seconds. He would have bested me again, no doubt, if he had not been massacred ten days later, exactly 9 years ago_ today_.

My cell vibrates inside my jacket, and I jump to my feet. Taylor's number. What an impeccable timing the man has. He is the only one I can tolerate today.

"Taylor, tell me something I want to hear."

"Cora is making steak. GEH was ranked in top companies to work for in Seattle's Business Magazine. You received a picture in the mail of a naked young lady wrapped only in a towel that says _Nothing Stands Between Me and Christian Grey_. Does any of this help?"

"Is the woman named Ana?"

"No."

"Then, no, it does not help. Any news?"

"I'm outside Hyde Art myself, Sir. Nothing. No sight of a woman with black hair and purple eyes." Taylor sounds lost in thought. The chase has gotten to him almost as much as it has gotten to me. No one evades Taylor. Except now, I am seriously worried, which is beyond my general emotional numbness.

"Taylor, for fuck's sake, how can a slip of a girl disappear in plain sight? What if something happened to her?" What the fuck is wrong with my voice? I sound like I am inhaling IED smoke.

"Sir, if I may, I took the liberty to check hospital admission records for the last four days." Taylor pauses, no doubt waiting for my ire, but I am frozen. Hospital? Fuck, it had not occurred to me that her sadness may have something to do with her own health. Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

"And?" I ask Taylor, expecting now the sound of my hoarse whisper.

"No one named Ana has been admitted in any hospitals in Seattle these last four days, Sir. So, we can rule that out."

I sink back on the sofa, my knees wobbling in a strange catharsis that freaks me out. Too strong a relief for a complete stranger. Maybe Bardon is right. Maybe she does live inside me.

"Sir?"

"Yes, still here," I say, thinking furiously about everything I know about this time of year in Seattle. What am I missing here?

"Sir, are you sure she is an employee or contractor?"

"Yes. No one else is ordered around like that unless they are employees. And low-level too, by Kasia's tone." I fucking hate that bitch. She treated someone so beautiful as if she was something the cat dragged in the door. _The door? Oh fuck!_

"Taylor, where exactly are your men standing when they wait?"

"Right outside Hyde Art, Sir. In the parking lot or the side walk."

I hit my fist on the arm of the sofa, and leap to my feet. _That's_ what I am missing. "Fuck! She is going inside from the back door. That's the only explanation, unless she is not going in at all. Can you get in the back right now?"

"Yes, Sir." Taylor sounds invigorated. I don't realize I am pacing until I almost run into my office wall. I hear Taylor's footsteps as he runs, and for some reason, I pace faster.

"I'm in the back, Sir. Nothing here except a Honda Civic."

Honda Civic? Could be a girl car. I have known 17 girls with Honda Civics. "Look inside, Taylor. What do you see?"

"I can do better than that," he says. I hear a click and I know he has broken into the car in broad daylight.

"Jesus Christ, Taylor. Is that necessary?"

"Well…." He sounds distracted, as he no doubt looks around. "It would have been worth it if there was something here. But I've never seen a cleaner car."

"Can you describe what you see, and take some pictures? And run the license plate to see who it belongs to."

"Well, the car is spotless, Sir. Just a cross hanging from the rear-view window."

A cross? Is she religious? Oh, fuck me. Maybe she is waiting for her wedding night. I am fucked. "What else?"

"Nothing. Not even an air freshener."

_Hmm_… "Taylor, you might as well do this fully. Can you open the glove box?"

"On it." I hear another click. Then Taylor whistles.

"What? What? What do you see?" _Jesus Christ, calm the fuck down, Grey._

"Pencils, brushes, erasers… and a sketch… Maybe this is Jack Hyde's car?"

Hyde's car? Can't be. "I doubt it. His gallery is one of the most stylish and expensive in Seattle. He has a statute of Plutus in the lobby who is the god of wealth in Greek mythology. This is not a humble man. He would not drive a Honda Civic. Look for clues. What's the sketch?"

"Ahhh… well… I… hmmm." My foot starts tapping as Taylor struggles to describe art.

"Hard to say, Sir. It looks like a very early sketch of the painting in your bedroom. I think it's supposed to be a woman's neck."

My breathing stops. Completely. Good thing that, as a Marine, I can go for a while without breathing. This makes no sense. Could this really be Hyde's car? Why else would the driver have a sketch of The Woman? Art student?

"Sir?"

"I'm thinking… Taylor, get the DMV records for Hyde. Take a picture of the sketch, and send it to me. Do you see any lip gloss or any girly shit in the glove box?" Most women I have known have some chapstick or hand cream or some shit in there.

"No. Just the drawing supplies. Not even registration papers, nothing with a name."

"No registration papers? How is that possible?"

"I don't know. And a really old tape… ah… music tape."

"Music tape? They still make those? Does it say anything?"

"Tango Argentino." Taylor tries to speak Spanish.

"Hmm… Not sure what the fuck we can do with that. Well, thank you. Get out of there before you're caught."

I hear Taylor close the door quietly like he was in the Special Forces, which is exactly the case. I try to think furiously about my next steps.

"Taylor, chances are the car is not Ana's if it has a sketch of the painting. The Woman in the painting was invented by a man, that much I know. And there is no girly shit in there. Still, run the plates. Something is not right about this if registration papers are missing. Then, park someone outside in the back, out of sight. Take a picture of every brunette woman you see in or around the building. If she has not shown up by tomorrow, we go city-wide. I don't care if you have to knock on every door. Find her!"

To my shock, Taylor laughs.

"What's so funny?"

"It's like chasing Cinderella, Sir. But with pictures, instead of glass shoes."

"Taylor, this is the part where you ask me if I were to fuck a dude, who would it be. Knock that fairytale shit off." The idea of me as a prince is ludicrous.

"Yes, Sir, although I do think if you were to fuck a dude, it would be George W." Taylor laughs. He and I bond over politics, and it's the one time when Taylor loses his formality with me. Taylor recovers and gets back to the matter at hand.

"What neighborhoods should we tackle first if she doesn't show tomorrow?"

"She had a couple of ink spots on the side of her middle finger where the pen rests, circles under her eyes, and is college age. I think she is a student, so we start with UW. This is their finals' week. Maybe that's another reason we have not seen her. And I will go to the Vital Stats Office and see how many Ana-s we're dealing with in Seattle." That's a perfect task for me. It will take only a couple of hours, and we will know for a fact. Although I'm pissed. Why couldn't she have had a different name? Like Princess Guinivere Domenica Henriette Veronique. But _Ana_?

Taylor eventually hangs up after reeling off more tactical moves, including hiring a police witness sketcher who can sketch Ana from my memory. As I picture her, the beast stutters again, almost like a cage rattling now. It is either getting closer or madder that Ana is evading it yet again. I wonder what the beast will do when I finally find her. It will consume her with every ounce of horsepower it possesses until she becomes more vivid than any other memory I possess.

My computer pings, and I walk to my desk. On the screen, is an email from Taylor attaching the picture of the sketch he found in the Honda Civic's glove box. I open it with something like mental starvation. And even though it's merely a pencil-drawn echo of the end-wonder of Her neck and shoulders, the effect on me is identical. The same feeling of virtue, the same peace.

Reveling as I am in feeling my mind at rest, I am startled when my office phone rings. I pick it up, recognizing my assistant Andrea's extension.

"Andrea?"

"Professor Dalton of University of Washington is on the line for you, Sir. Should I connect him?"

Dalton teaches Chemistry and Biology at UW where I fund the science and medical programs. Every year, to show the money is being put to good use, Dalton picks the crème-de-la-crème of his graduating students to present their thesis projects to me. I have to say, I appreciate the man's efforts. Other institutions just send me a thank-you note or an engraved plaque with my name on it. I don't give two fucks about that. Seeing what the money does, the impact it has on our schools while America drops to Number 17 in the Global Education Ratings, is the only thing that matters.

"Yes, Andrea, that's fine," I say, and in seconds Dalton's academic voice is on the other line. He sounds like a BBC commentator: measured, authoritative but humble. I like Dalton.

"Mr. Grey, David Dalton here, Sir."

"Hello David, how do you do?"

"I'm fine, Sir. Sending off a good group of students into the world next week." Dalton sighs with a melancholic sound. He is a dedicated professor. Over the years, I have seen him pour into the Biology Department an aura of learning and knowledge, not just grades and numbers. His teaching philosophy is simple. Learn how to learn, and everything else will follow.

"I am looking forward to the presentation tomorrow. What is the topic this year?"

Dalton chuckles. "You never need reminders, Mr. Grey, no matter how subtly I try to give them. I'd like to know your secret. My wife would give up spa gift cards for that kind of organization."

I chuckle too because that's what would be normal but the truth is that Dalton's wife, or any wife, would run for the hills if they knew my secret: that I forget nothing and am trapped in the past. Literally.

"Get some post-its," I say in what I hope is a normal-human-being voice.

"My favorite student gave me some with handwritten biology puns last month. One was about a virus and a chromosome on a date… Ah, anyway… this brings me to your point. This year's presentation is by Anastasia Steele. I always laude about my students, Mr. Grey, but this one is something else. I have not had a student like her in all my 30 years of teaching. She enrolled four years ago and started slow at first. But now she is Number 1 in her class although she does not know it yet, her final grade just came out. Candidate for Rhode Scholar. Fluent in Latin and Italian, conversational in Spanish. Spartan work ethic. She has discovered a way to integrate natural and synthetic protein, which is a big step towards producing full synthetic protein…."

Dalton is off on geek land while the image of a kind girl with jar-bottom glasses, gap teeth, a pocket liner, and white socks under sandals appears in my mind. For some reason, the thought is endearing. Something about Dalton's description of this prodigy hints at a natural humility in the girl. Perhaps someone who goes through life quietly when she should be roaring. Extra bonus for me if she really looks the nerdy part. I am sick of beautiful women. Or one woman in particular. She is ravaging my mind with no consideration at all for the havoc she is wreaking. Yes, nerdy Ms. Steele is exactly what I need. Hopefully, she will have food in her teeth too, and a snorty laugh. My only annoyance is that her name contains those three letters that have been driving me crazy. A.N.A.

"Anyway… her invention is something that you would find interesting for your charity in hunger and environmental causes, Mr. Grey. I think this kid holds the answer to cancer."

Dalton's voice takes on a note of regret. There is something protective, almost paternal in his voice. Perhaps he is reluctant to part with this student. I have not noticed this tone on him before. He sighs. "She has been my chief research assistant over the last four years, since Christmas 2008. I wish I could say she is my daughter, but she is not."

"Well, I am very impressed, David. With that glowing recommendation, I am eager to meet her. I will have my Marketing Director with me, as always."

I wait for Dalton to wrap up the call but he does not. Instead, he clears his throat and pauses. I know this pause. It's about money. "Mr. Grey, if you don't mind me bringing this up now, her little invention is a beautiful thing indeed but it has one more stage of testing left. If it impresses you, and you have the inclination, perhaps we can discuss ways to help her finish it and patent it?" Dalton is not a salesman. And because of that, he gets more money from me.

"Sure, we can discuss those details tomorrow. But based on your recommendation, I don't expect any issues with it."

"Thank you, Mr. Grey. See you tomorrow morning, Conference Room B, same as last year," he starts to hang up.

"David?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey?"

"How did the pun joke end?"

He laughs. "The virus asks the chromosome, 'What do you think our kids will look like?' And the chromosome answers, 'Mono-chromatic.'"

Despite it being May 12, I laugh. "Clever. Because the chromosome was kissing mono."

"Yes," Dalton says, and then he sighs. "She wrote it herself…"

There it is again, that sadness in his voice when he talks about Ms. Steele. I thank him, and he hangs up.

Of their own volition, my eyes flit to the sketch of the Woman's neck still open on my computer. On impulse, I do something I have never done before. I save it as my screen saver. I don't have pictures anywhere, I don't need them. But this is not exactly a picture, is it? It's…medicine.

I leave the computer on – turning off the light on Her seems sacrilegious, like leaving a flag raised at sunset – and stand up, as I prepare for my final task of the day. The dread in my nightmares, the strangle of my veins. The date that my cells prepare for, in a bootcamp of their own, for the previous 12 months.

I look outside my office window as the sun sets over Puget Sound, waiting. It's not dark yet. I stare at the burning mass of solar gas, seeing no sun. It morphs into a mound of dismembered bodies in Falloujah, Iraq.

_An IED goes off, near a market, triggered this time by our own explosives. About 20 men, women, and children...gone. Their bodies smattered on the rubble, here a finger, here a head, here a pair of shrapnel-ridden intestines. I pick up the body parts, as many as I can, and gather them together. The beast works with me, rather than against me. This arm has the same shirt as that other arm. They go together. Think, Grey, think. I pick up the lower torso of a young boy, no older than 14, with the same brown and white striped shirt as the arms, and set it aside. I am missing the upper body. _

_I search with no mind, no reason. Just a strange numbness in my brain, like the feeling of Novocain on your tongue. I turn over fragments of shattered walls, shingles, sewage tops. Finally, I find the rest of the boy. The ribcage has exploded from both sound and fire, leftover bits of lung stuck to the exposed ribs like blood-soaked sponges. Bile rises in my throat. Perhaps the body wants to expel what the mind cannot. But any form of relief to ourselves – even as vomit – would, at this moment, be blasphemous so I swallow it. It tastes rancid. I pick up the rest of the body and put it together. It's now complete. A macabre jigsaw. I look at the sun, not at my hands. _

_"Are you done, Marshall?" Hendrix, my other platoon mate, calls over his shoulder. He is done with his pile of bodies, too. Our voices are no longer our voices. They are simply the sound we make when we talk. Steven Pinker, famous Harvard linguist says that language is what makes us human. Steven Pinker has never heard combat talk. Because although we speak human, human we are not._

_"No, God damn it, God damn it, God damn it, God fucking damn it." Marshall is crawling on his hands and knees on the moist red sand off to the side of the road. The blood has soaked through the millennia of sandy grit but Marshall digs into the sand, relentless. _

_"Here, let me do that, man," I say as I try to pull him away from the sand. I can find the body parts more easily. I can match the hand to the foot on skin color alone. But Marshall shoves me away._

_"Fuck you, fuck you. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he says to us, in Human. He digs deeper, transformed now into a different beast, a species with no name. He is mumbling under his breath as he digs. At first, it sounds like profanities but then the words string in one sentence. He's one of us. He's one of us._

_Hendrix, Kerry, and I freeze. "What are you talking about Marshall? What are you saying?"_

_"He's one of us, one of us, one of us…" he repeats to himself, in torrential whispers._

_"What the fuck? Who is?" Kerrigan cries out, but I now see what Marshall means. The body he is trying to put together has a fabric engrafted to it that I know in my bones. MCCUU – Marines Corps Combat Utility Uniform – the battledress uniform with its patented camouflage pattern. The body was one of us._

_"I'm missing the left side, the left side, the left side…" Marshall continues to whisper. We drop everything in unison and search with him. For anything, a finger, a tooth. We find some, but not all…._

My iPhone vibrates and I resurface in Seattle, Washington. I am at Grey House. In my office. 60th floor. Behind me is my desk. In front of me the glass window. The sun has gone down. It is now dark. May 9 is almost over. It's time for my homage.

"Taylor," I pick up, recognizing his number.

"Sir, I'm downstairs with the Jeep Wrangler." Taylor knows the ritual as well as I do.

"I'll be right down."

I hang up and look at the sketch on my screen saver. It starts to dissolve the carnage in my brain but this one time, I don't let it. Every man has a price to pay in life. And this one is mine. I reach with my index finger on the computer screen and trace the line of the Woman's neck. Then I sweep out of the door, leaving the lights on.

Taylor waits outside with the blue 1993 Jeep Wrangler. This is the car that Marshall drove before he joined the Corps. He sold it later, but always talked about buying it back if he returned. He never returned because he got mutilated like an animal 9 years ago today.

"Are you sure you want to go alone, Sir?" Taylor asks as he does every year.

I nod and open the door. "See you later, Taylor."

I start driving to Cle Elum, Marshall's hometown where his parents still live today. In the one-hour drive, eidetic though I am, I cannot remember my thoughts. But I can remember every minute I knew of Marshall's life and every minute of his death. There is a silence in my head that is louder than mortar fire.

I turn on First Street, getting closer to Marshall's childhood home. A mile now. It's 10:30. A different night, darker somehow, thicker. With every turn of the Jeep's wheels, I remember the trip when I returned from Iraq. I came here first before going home.

I see the house now, even though it's dark. The silhouette stands out of the darkness only because the front porch light is on. And on the window of Marshall's bedroom, there is a single lit candle. The same as every year. His mother, Glenda, will keep it lit all night.

I slow the Jeep to a crawl when I reach the house, but do not stop. As if the Jeep knows, it rumbles less, the engine going almost idle from the slow speed. The candle in the window flickers a few times. There is only silence.

….

Thoughts go mute, as does the pulse, the blood. Even the beast does not stir, paralyzed as it is by that one final hour. All falls quiet except one memory. Marshall's blood on my lips, his broken body, his utter silence even during torture. On that last moment before the bullet to his temple, our eyes met once. He winked. The insurgents tightened their grip on me, he shook his head once, _No,_ and then the shot rent the air.

I hit the pedal of the Jeep and drive off. I never go in. It would be a disgrace to his memory for me to cross this threshold on this night, or any other night. At the end of the day, it is not a game of numbers. It is not a matter of one survived, one did not. The fundamental question is _who_ survived and _who_ should have not. Why is that the fundamental question? Because it's the only question to which I know the fucking answer. I don't know the answer to why or what for. I don't know if it was all for nothing or for something. The only thing I know is that, all things being equal, Marshall should be in this Jeep, driving to my neighborhood, with Jasmine on the front seat, saying "Grey was a piece of work. I will give the motherfucker one thing though: he gladly took my place."

I reach Escala in a time-warp state. The type where you blink once and – boom – you are somewhere, not remembering how you got there even if you have eidetic memory. I park Marshall's Jeep, and cover it in my garage. I take my elevator upstairs, walk past the kitchen, and straight to my bedroom.

She waits for me, in all Her light and darkness. Without design or plan, I lean my forehead on the wall next to painting. The madness recedes, as always. Furious but exhausted, the beast folds in on itself, and my mind rests.

I sit at the foot of my bed and take off my clothes. On any other year, I would be drunk now. Really fucking drunk. But instead, I feel together, even if exhausted.

What would you do, I ask Her, before I realize what I am doing. I imagine Her saying simple things, loving things, the kind of things that as a tough man you don't think you need but you know you want. _You're good, you're mine, it will be_ okay. They say people lie to themselves about three things: being better than they really are, having control over their lives, and that the future will be better than the present. So I believe Her words now, because they are not real, they are imagined, like She is.

I lie in bed, listening to Her truths. Amazingly, I feel drowsy. I have not slept on May 9 since 2002. But tonight, I sleep.


	4. Chapter 4 - Madonna (CG POV)

A/N - Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing my story from CG POV, and for commenting and writing to me. It means so much. This is the most requested chapter I have received messages for: when CG finally connects the dots of who Ana is. Also, I have gotten so so many questions about **the original story et**c., that here are some answers and announcements.

1. For a very short time, THE ORIGINAL STORY (The Master's Muse, original title 30 Nights of Snow) **will be posted on my blog ONLY, not here for safety reasons.** My blog is thirtynights dot wordpress dot com Please replace the dot with periods and you will get there. Or google my name. You will need to sign up to follow it if you want the updates but it's easy. You don't get any ads or junk mail, just updates of the chapters as they are posted. All you need to do to sign up is give your email and confirm when you get the notice, and you will see all the chapters as they are added. I really hope you like it. It's been the fruit of some serious labor since I am awful with technology.

2. SEQUEL PROLOGUE will also be on the blog. As will be the CG/Aiden chapters, skipped days and outtakes.

3. I am also introducing my new project, THE 30 NIGHTS POEMS, which is also on the blog, and a snippet here.

4. Why is FF not letting me review? If you are a reader that has followed TMM from the beginning, you will need to review as a guest because FF thinks you have reviewed before. I know, a pain! If you are a new reader, you won't have that problem. :-)

I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please let me know - I love reading your reviews and comments. And I hope to see you on my blog, if you drop me comments and questions on the blog, I will answer them very quickly as I check it everyday. So please write. :-) THANK YOU SO MUCH! More thanks below.

Who said that love lives, love thrives,

I have known it to destroy and to deprive

The carnage, the strife to stay alive,

The love I have known doesn't live. It survives.

- Ani Surnois

SONGS: Maria Callas, Romeo & Juilette, Je Veux Vivre (it seems the most appropriate one)

**Chapter 4. Madonna**

I wake up at 6 a.m., to the sound of Moonlight Sonata. My dick is already awake. In fact, he may have been up all night staring at Her by the looks of it. This is getting ridiculous. I can't go out in public like this. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling to keep my eyes from drifting anywhere that may have anything to do with a woman. Now, it has become a personal war. Either I win or my dick does. And for some perverted reason, I don't want to cave. It's as if the moment I surrender and jerk off to Her or Ana, I will lose whatever little dignity I have managed to salvage during these last five days in my insane hunt for Cinderella as Taylor calls her. No. I am not going down first. My dick senses my resolve and rages furiously, pointing no longer at the ceiling but straight at my face.

What the fuck are you looking at? Stand down Private Dick. I'm _your_ sergeant, not the other way around.

He ignores me completely, and twitches. _I want her. Now. _

Shut up and act your age for fuck's sake.

_My age? I'm 17. _

Baseball is a great sport, don't you think? Last year, the Cardinals beat the Rangers in seven games for the 11th World Series championship. Albert Pujols hit three home runs, matching Babe Ruth and Reggie Jackson.

_Oh yeah? Keep your Pujols and Ruth. I will have Her and Ana. At the same time._

Oh you fucking asshole!

The traitor senses my demise and points at the center of my forehead like he is about to claim my life. _Picture them_, he says. _You want them. You want them both. Really fucking badly. You don't know which one you want more. Look at you, acting all Marine-tough and shit. Be a man and grab me. It will take less than 34 seconds this time. Just do it_.

Shut. Up.

I start thinking of random crap to calm myself down. For example, why do I insist on having a side of the bed when clearly no one is occupying the other? I roll over in the middle and spread out my arms and legs. Unfortunately, my comforter is a fucking combat tent, so I unleash the beast upon the traitor.

Bitch that she is, she eats him alive with memories. _ Take that, asshole._ _You will behave today because today will be a good day. You will not knock over Gail's lampshades, and you will not raise your hand to speak during Dalton's presentation. We will go to UW and geek out with sweet Ms. Steele With Jar-Bottom Glasses. We will listen to everything she has to say about peptides and amino acids, and we will fund her project. Then, we will take our asses to the Vital Stats office where we will finally find this Ana and you can unleash yourself upon her to your heart's content. _

Finally, the traitor is tamed. I throw my comforter to the side, and get up. Work out, shower, then Dalton and I-never-torment-a-man-and-always-mind-my-own-busin ess Ms. Steele. Bless all geeky science students who are considerate of a man's feelings and do not torture him with Venus-like apparitions.

I beat my punching bag to pulp for good measure, in case there is an ounce of sexual frustration left. There is. Plenty. But at least I can walk. After my steak-and-egg breakfast and a not-so-subtle hint from my housekeeper, Gail Jones, to eat rabbit food, by which I mean vegetables, I follow Taylor out of my penthouse to the parking garage.

"Taylor, are we picking up Samson, or is he meeting us at UW?" Daniel Samson is my Director of Marketing and Public Relations.

"He is meeting us at UW, Sir."

Samson is as trusted as it gets for me in business. He has a shrewd mind and never engages in flamboyant advertising. Like me, he thinks our best advertisers are our people. I promote GEH more by funding UW and its students, for example, than I would if I were to attend a gala wearing a tux and smiling inanely for the cameras.

And this suits me like a glove. Being in a crowd or some other soiree would run the risk of someone sneaking up behind me. That would do shit for marketing. On the contrary, it would sink me, my ship, and my 24,000 employees.

Taylor drives out of the parking garage, and heads down Fourth Street to the U-District.

"Ryan reported this morning, Sir. No Cinderella during the night shift, although the Honda Civic finally left at 1 a.m. You were right, the car is not Hyde's. It was a young man, early twenties. Must be an art student."

"That makes sense. Hyde has set up a small scholarship for Cornish College of the Arts."

The scholarship is miniscule, as if the man is doing the bare minimum needed to keep up appearances. I don't know why he bothers. What self-promoting business donates only $500 to a school?

Taylor nods thoughtfully, and keeps driving, no doubt plotting the capture of Ana. For my part, I keep my thoughts as far away from her as possible, and listen to David Greene on NPR's Morning Edition discuss the pros and cons of immigration reform. What a cluster fuck.

When we arrive at the UW Biology Building, Samson is waiting outside in his perpetually-navy suit. Why he doesn't invest in a different color is beyond me. I pay the man enough. I get out of the car while Taylor drives to park in my spot. That is one perk I allow myself in exchange for the years in Iraq and Afghanistan. Park wherever the fuck I want in this land.

I walk up the short steps to Samson. He is staring intently at an open folder in his hands, as if it holds the answer to immigration reform. His mouth is a little open and his eyebrows are up so high that they supply the only hair in his bald head.

"Good morning, Samson," I say as I reach him.

"Ah! Oh… Good morning, Mr. Grey." He jumps up, startled out of his wits. I step back slowly. I know the effects of a startle only too well.

Noticing my retreat, he smiles. "Sorry, my mistake. I was engrossed."

The irony of anyone apologizing to _me_ for startling them is not lost on me but Samson does not need to know the gory details. He has no idea what happens if someone startles me from behind. _Change the topic, Grey_. "I hope whatever you are reading is my five-year business plan for riding out the recession."

Samson laughs freely now. "Nope but something equally brilliant." He looks at the folder in front of him and shakes his head with the same awed expression.

Now I am curious. "What the hell are you reading?"

He looks up as if he forgot I was there, and then he hands me the folder. "Look at this," he demands in awe.

I take the ordinary manila folder, wondering if the man has lost his marbles, much like his boss. I flip it open, and blink a few times until I realize what I am seeing. A cheat sheet by Dalton summarizing Ms. Steele-with-Jar-Bottom-Glasses' academic credentials, and attached transcripts. Holy. Fuck.

ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE

Academic Summary

Matriculation Date: August 25, 2008

Expected Graduation Date: May 14, 2012

Major: Biology

Minor: Chemistry

Expected Honors: Summa Cum Laude, Phi Beta Kappa, Recommendation for Rhodes Scholar

Cumulative GPA: 4.0

Senior Thesis: Steele, A.R., _Does This Protein Make My Mass Look Big: a study of partially synthetic proteins and their effect on malnutrition_, University of Washington Science Journal p. 45.

Languages: Latin, Italian, Spanish

Publications: Steele, R. E. & Steele, A. R., 2006, _The Hunger Genome_, Journal of Biosocial Science, Cambridge University Press, p. 503 (2006).

I read Dalton's summary twice. Jesus Fucking Christ. Competitive maniac that I am, I look through her transcripts. I had a 4.0 too from this very same institution, but I have eidetic memory and I never attempted Organic Chemistry, Electromagnetism, or Introduction to Quantum Physics. Suddenly, I am assaulted by an insane compulsion to take these courses now just to see if I could ace them too. Maybe Ms. Steele can do my homework and I will explain to her the basics of baseball. It would be a perfectly sex-free friendship. Brilliant! I have never had one of those with a woman.

"I think we should hire this kid," Samson says. It makes me laugh.

"To do what? Test for bacteria around doorknobs? We are venture capitalists, Samson. What would she do for us?"

"I don't know. Breathe around the building and make us feel smarter?"

He is still laughing at his own joke when Taylor joins us after parking the Audi. We walk inside the Biology Building to Conference Room B. I am oddly excited. A perfectly torment-free hour with Ms. Steele and Dalton.

Taylor opens the door to the Conference Room. I walk in. And I freeze.

_Jesus. Motherfucking. Christ. Fuck. Me. What. The. Fuck. Is. This. Some. Kind. Of. A. Sick. Joke?_

I blink a few times, and very discreetly dig one of my nails into the inside of my palm. Yes, I am awake. But the woman in front of me is none other than Ana. Yes, _that_ Ana. Cinderella. My Little Ana. Whatever the fuck you want to call her. _That_ Ana.

The eidetic beast roars to life. It stutters worse than ever, almost a rattle now, as it tries to match Ana to a memory. But I am focusing all my mental power on appearing semi-normal, and not grabbing her, running away with her, fucking her silly, and then spanking the shit out of her for tormenting me for a week.

I lock my muscles in place, lest my arms and legs move on their own and kidnap her. No, Dalton is here. I can't do that. Polite manners will go over better.

Grateful am I for my brain in this moment. For anyone else, this would have been an eternal moment of mindless gawking. For me, it is mindless gawking all right, but at least it's short lived. The sight that ends it, is an identical surprise on her cherubic face. As if she too has been wondering who I am, and perhaps has given me a second thought, and maybe a third. Fortified by that inexplicable part of the male ego that prompts us to conquer, I step towards her, oblivious to my surroundings.

She stands with that same fluid posture, and her neck arches slowly in invitation. The gesture is so timeless and graceful that the world recedes in slow motion. Her eyes, her endless eyes, smile. But their patent restrained sadness lingers at their corners, or perhaps on her lashes like ethereal tears.

I finally reach her, and extend my hand with nearly acrobatic impatience.

"You must be Ms. Steele," I say. My voice is a stranger. It sounds hushed like the rest of the world. As if her light dims it by comparison. The beast stutters again at the thought but I'm beyond reason.

"I'm Christian Grey. It's nice to meet you." I keep my eyes on her violets, almost afraid to take her hand. What if it's intangible? Another apparition like Bardon suspects?

She smiles a brilliant smile, at odds with the melancholic eyes. I wonder hazily which one is her true spirit: the smile or the melancholy? She takes my hand. A barely audible gasp leaves her lips. A curious light gleams in her eyes at the contact.

Her skin is velvet soft, but her fingers are cold. Nerves, perhaps? Her small hand disappears inside mine. I close my fingers around hers, reveling in their substance. She is touchable. Real.

"Mr. Grey, a pleasure to meet you, too," she says. I am stunned by her voice. It is clear like silver chimes but it ripples in resonant whispers even after she has stopped talking.

And, as if I were not royally fucked already, she has a British accent. Authentic, not fake like Kasia's. On the upshot, her silver-bell sound wakes me up from my stupor. On the downside, my traitorous dick has noticed her and her accent, and is going after her with a vengeance.

Mercifully, Dalton approaches and stops my dick and me on our tracks. There is no telling what we would do if we were here with her alone.

"Mr. Grey, it's good to see you again." Dalton shakes my hand. His masculine grip and hairy knuckles break the spell. The moronic adolescent that nearly blew his load from Ana's voice alone is gone, and back is the 32-year old asshole. _Man up, Grey._ I re-introduce Samson to Dalton, doing my Marine-damnest to ignore the exquisite sight next to me.

But Samson has other plans. Tired of looking at Dalton with Ana as an alternative, he directs his beady eye on her, not that I blame him. He introduces himself with a smile, and shakes her hand. At the sight, the Devil himself nests in my chest a lair of vipers, and my vision narrows. As my ears start to ring and I recognize the first signs of rage, I search manically to understand what the fuck my problem is.

And then it hits me – simple, as it is complex and terrifying. I am_ jealous_. Me. Jealous. Over a fucking handshake between Ana and my Marketing Director. What. The. Fuck. The beast, stunned by this development, tries to remember the last time I experienced jealousy over a woman. It locates an echo of an echo of my current venom back on March 8, 1989, when I was almost 9 years old and had a bad crush on Jennifer Childes, along with every other pair of fuzz-nuts in my elementary school. Since then, I've always conquered and moved on, never losing to another and never feeling this kind of possession.

I've always blamed that numbness on my eidetic memory and on my war defect. But now, I realize I have been a hazard all along, I was just missing the right trigger. Ana is all smiles with 42-year-old Samson now and I try to calm my ringing ears by reasoning that this lunacy is only because I have not fucked in a week. After all, it is natural for a man to feel protective over the only woman around under these circumstances. It's our instinct, I tell myself. But my Darwinian evolution bullshit won't do because Samson takes it upon himself to compliment her on her academic achievements and she blushes a lovely rose color and looks down at her hands. That's it. I've had it. _Back off Samson._

"Ms. Steele, David Dalton has been quite complimentary of your thesis project. At your convenience, I'd like to hear about it," I say because once she gets started, I can sit and stare at her to my heart's content.

She looks at me differently than she looks at Samson or Dalton. At Dalton, she looks with a sort of deference. At Samson, with some relief. But the moment she looks at me, her eyes take on a mixture of resistance and gratitude. As if she is thanking me for something. I have no idea what it could be so, clueless, I only smile. Mindless smiling is not my go-to face under any circumstances but what else can a man do faced with otherworldly perfection like this?

"Of course, Sir. Whenever you're ready," she says eventually, as if she just woke up from a pleasant dream.

I take the middle chair on the front row, and Dalton and Samson sit on each side of me. She looks panicked for a moment, and I notice her left index finger and thumb rub gently together around a paper clip. The sight is endearing. She is nervous. With all her perfections, from her looks to her grades, it is this small imperfection - her nerves – that humanizes her. It seals the deal that she is real. A hallucination would never be nervous. The weight I have been carrying since Bardon's tentative diagnosis dissolves into nothing.

Ana clicks her PowerPoint remote control, and the projector on the wall behind her comes to life. The fluorescent light molds her features, as Dalton dims the overhead neons. Perhaps it's the darker room or the projector light that pours on her alone but, instantly, the beast rages and rattles my skull. Ana starts speaking in her silvery voice but I register her words only tangentially from the deafening clamor in my head.

Something has infuriated the beast more than at any other time in my life. It is no longer stuttering now, it is thundering down on me like the wrath of God. No one has evaded it before. It either devours the world or it ignores it, at its own unfettered discretion. But with this Ana, for whatever reason, the beast has met resistance. The thought should relieve me but it does not. Because in the back of my mind, a stentorian question rivals the beast's cry: what will my memory do with Ana once it takes her down? Will it blow her into smithereens or will it shroud her flawlessly, more immaculate than any other memory? I sit here in this Conference Room, split in two. A part of me wants the beast to win. It wants the puzzle solved, and the comfort of the known, the predictable. But another part, the part that was able to sleep on Marshall's death anniversary, craves change. This part, new and weak though it is, wants Ana to take the whore down. Destroy it with vengeance, and prevail.

But how would Ana prevail against the monster? Strangely, the answer occurs to me only now that I'm down to the wire. Ana prevails only in one way: if I remember her out of choice, not out of captivity to the beast. In other words, Ana wins if _I _want to hold on to her more than the beast does.

Now that I have the answer to this battle inside my head, I look closely. I dissect Ana's face, inch by inch, to discern why the beast thinks it knows her. I listen to her every word, in case the answer is there too. She speaks intelligently, with a poetic edge to her science that makes you want to write an ode to proteins. All my senses are in desert survival mode. They inhale her sight, her sound, her very air. She looks at me rarely, and when she does, her words slow down fractionally and she averts her violets. Possessed as I am, I want to scream at her to look at me. Only me. But she seems determined to avoid my eyes so I stare at her for two.

Thankfully, today, she is not covered neck to knee. She is wearing a black skirt, an unbuttoned dark red sweater, and a white camisole that exposes her neck and collarbones. I let my eyes roam on these new parts of her, parts that the beast has not seen but thinks it has. The rattle inside my head becomes blaring. I linger on her jawline and her face until her eyes distract me from my inquest.

They shine when she looks at her PowerPoint materials, and her face is tender as if she is caressing the protein she invented with her very words. It's the face one might have when they see someone they thought was long lost. A "you're-here-like-I-always-thought" look. Perhaps, this invention is something that she has worked on for years. Or perhaps it's a dream, because the look on her face is nothing but a worshipful supplication. She has waited for this moment all her life, but not for herself. Rather, she has waited for the world to meet whatever this little invention means to her.

It is that strong emotion on her face that makes me put my own selfish battle aside. Something brews inside this woman, strong and tempestuous, and I want nothing more but to calm it, the same way that the Woman in the painting calms me. At the thought of the Woman, the beast snarls. The rolodex cards spin furiously, hunting… data, numbers, dates, years, faces, bodies, landscapes, maps, over and over again in a dizzying chaos that drums at my temples. The pandemonium becomes unbearable. I am about to call a break when something happens.

Ana looks at me, at me alone, and smiles a mystical, Mona Lisa smile. Then, slowly, as if she does not want to leave my face, she turns her head to the left to look at her slides. The beast pounces on Ana's exposed neck and – at last – it sinks its teeth on her flawless flesh.

It takes only three seconds. One second for the beast to bite, two for the beast to collapse in exhaustion, and three for my conscience to register the verdict.

_Ana is the Woman in the painting. _

It took this stance as She looked away from me to Her left, for the beast to recognize it as the same pose in the painting.

I watch Her, stunned. I lock all my muscles and grasp the desk so that I don't spring to my feet. The clamor in my head stops. There is only silence. Her silence. And that is how I know Ana has prevailed. Not only because I never want to forget Her. But because She is the one who silenced the beast from the very beginning.

I trace Her collarbones, Her neck, Her jawline in incredulous defeat. There is nothing in my head except a contented sigh. My reactions to Ana and the Woman merge too. Peace, lust, virtue, protectiveness, protection, acceptance, forgiveness – all here, all now.

Ana finishes Her presentation, and looks back at us with a brilliant smile, as if She did not just transform the landscape of my mind permanently.

"Are there any questions?" She asks, almost afraid of our answer. I sit there, trying to think of something to say. Something worth Her intelligence. But the only question that I am able to formulate is, _how did you do it? How did you reach me in one week without even uttering a word?_

Is it possible that only five days ago I thought I might make Her my intellectual sub? The idea is revolting now, a desecration. I don't want Her to be anyone else but who She is: the Madonna of my existence.

I can't ask Her these questions. I can only watch Her, tongue-tied and wordless. Samson, the punk motherfucker, pipes up. He is all smiles for my Ana.

"Ms. Steele, this is very impressive indeed. So, if I understand correctly, the nutritional supplement you have derived packs about as much protein and energy as a serving of salmon?"

What a dumbfuck question! She answered that twice. Once in Her slides, and once in Her packet materials, on page 2. I shouldn't blame Samson. No warm-blooded man can look at this Woman and be expected to remember his own name, let alone the attributes of a complex protein. But, pissed as I am at his googly eyes, I don't bother with fairness.

"Yes, Mr. Samson," She twinkles, polite as ever. She looks relieved. She knows this. That decides it for me. She is nervous about questions. I will keep mine at a bare minimum.

"What about vitamins?" Samson prattles on. Fucking show-off.

"Yes, those can be incorporated in the supplement, much like they are in drinks, but in powder form. There would need to be an adjustment for taste, but nutritionally, it is possible," Ana sings. There is no other way to describe Her soft, musical voice.

"Well, that was going to be my next question. What does it look like? What does it taste like?" Samson won't shut the fuck up, and in my tattered mind frame, I am grateful for the silver lining. He is keeping Her talking, while I gather my wits that are thoroughly scattered all over Conference Room B.

Something about Samson's question makes Her really happy. She almost bounces on the spot. "Oh, here. I have some samples. It looks like a piece of gum," She chimes and skips to the podium with a grace that would ruffle the Swan Lake ballerinas' feathers.

She picks up a handful of shiny, pink candy, and sashays back to us. "Umm…sorry, I only have them in pink for now," She mumbles in apology, as if this is the biggest transgression committed against mankind. As an accomplisher of worse transgressions, Her apology is so endearing that I find myself laughing. Something about Her pink candy hints at an innocence and purity that is as otherworldly as She.

"But the packaging can obviously be changed," She sings again. Then She opens Her little porcelain hand and offers us the candy. I have a mad premonition that I am accepting a forbidden fruit and that the moment I taste_ it_, I taste Her and I will never be the same again. With no hesitation, I reach and take one. I want to touch Her skin, but Samson's paw appears out of nowhere, as do Dalton's hairy knuckles. Motherfuckers!

"So, are these safe to eat? Have they been tested?" Samson asks. Fucking pussy.

Dalton, who has been silent until now, pipes up. "Oh yes. I eat them every day, especially when I forget lunch. Poor Ana has had to make extra just to account for me alone." He is glowing with paternal pride. It reminds me of his melancholic wish that Ms. Steele was his daughter. I decide to remove Dalton from my shit list. He obviously cares for Ana in a familial way. And, after what I have witnessed, who would not want Her as a daughter. Well, except me, obviously. I wonder what genetic arsenal joined forces to produce this kind of perfection?

I unwrap the protein candy and pop it in my mouth.

A burst of cinnamon assaults my tongue. The candy tastes like Big Red gum. Ingenious. She has made it into a breath freshener too. Nutrition, guilty pleasure, function, and pastime in one.

Samson laughs, or rather brays. "It tastes like cinnamon." He smacks his lips. No shit, Samson. _Did you go to Harvard or were you raised by a pack of wolves?_

But Ana is delighted with Samson. "Yes, this batch does," She croons. She looks at the candy wrappers so lovingly that I realize I am being an asshole even bigger than usual. Of course, She is delighted. This invention is obviously Her blood and tears, and Samson is showing interest in it while I sit here deaf and mute to anything but Her.

"What, you've tried them in other tastes?" Samson blathers.

"Yes. Peppermint and strawberry. Oh, and steak once because Professor Dalton thought that would go well with men. I don't recommend it." She wrinkles Her celestial upturned nose. If there is a more adorable sight, I will buy Samson a new Mercedes.

"Yes, Ana tried to warn me. But it sounded much better in my head than it tasted on my tongue," Dalton says between belly laughs. I don't know. Steak candy sounds fucking good to me.

I try with all my faculties to think of something coherent to say. But all my questions are a version of the following: where did you come from? What are you doing tonight? What about tomorrow? And the day after? And the day after that? What does it sound like when you whisper, when you sigh? What does your hair smell like? What do you like to eat? What is your favorite color, favorite word, favorite book? Where would you like to go? I don't do sandy beaches but I do mountain tops. Do you want your own mountain? Your own country? How about your own star?

"Do you make this yourself?" Samson steals all reasonable questions. Fucking dick.

"Yes. For now. But they're really easy," She smiles again and Her eyes linger with that same kind of unrequited love on the candy. Why do they hold this loss, this endless pain even in their beauty?

"Well, I wouldn't say easy," Dalton distracts me. "Easy to her because she invented it. But Ana is a good teacher. I think she can train just about anyone. Hell, she's even trained me and as my wife can tell you, that's not an easy task."

Ana blushes again. It is not the normal blush that you see in innocent women, the tomato, blood, or crimson red. It is a pink rose, like the blush may have seen a bit too much life to bloom into full scarlet fever. She looks at Her shoes and I follow Her gaze. She has good taste in clothes. Not fashion, but style. They are well-made, and I feel some relief knowing that at least Her parents are well off if they are sending Her at UW, and are dressing Her this way. So I can scratch out economic trouble from the list of potential reasons for the pain in Her eyes.

She knots Her fingers. Her lips are slightly parted, as if breathing is difficult. My eyes linger on Her lips, which I have avoided since I walked in here. To my utter dismay, I picture myself kissing them.

As a rule, I don't kiss on the mouth. The taste is too intimate, the very essence of a human being, if you will. And I don't want to absorb that essence into my memory because I would remember it for life. Taste is a heavier burden to carry than sight, feel, or smell. It would blend with the taste of my own mouth, and my tongue would feel like a petri dish of past memories. I have done my best to avoid that. But this Ana, I would kiss on the mouth. Whatever Her essence is, I want it to be mine.

She pulls in some air through Her parted lips, and looks at Her slides again with that same restrained melancholy. That's when I realize the only question I can ask Her without exposing the inner madman that has usurped me.

"How did you come up with the idea?" I ask.

She looks at me, almost startled. She blanches, as if She is determined to defend Herself, but recovers instantly. The reaction is so brief that I cannot help but suspect that this is part of the storm that brews inside Her.

"It's something that my father originally came up with when I was young. I have continued his work." Even Her voice is different when She answers this question. The song is gone from it and, in its place, there is a methodical annunciation, as if She is in speech class, learning to pronounce a foreign language. Precise, perfect, but not Hers. I search Her face for verification of my theory but it is well-controlled.

Dalton jumps in. "Ana is being too modest. Her father formulated the idea of a tiny candy packing up as much nutrition as a healthy meal but the protein, the content, the taste, and the process are all hers."

Ana smiles at Dalton briefly, then at me. The only thing that betrays Her discomfort is that tight restraint in Her eyes.

"Has your father helped you during this project?" I probe again.

"No, Mr. Grey," She says. I ignore the sound of my surname in Her lips because She is looking at me squarely in the eye with an intensity I have only seen in the desert. A form of defense that does not come from weapons but from some deep conviction within. It's as though She does not want to answer my questions. Odd. She has no problem gushing about her project. But when the questions become personal, She withdraws inside these fortress-like walls.

I decide to test my theory and ask a non-private question. "And how far are you in the process of finishing and obtaining FDA approval?"

Bingo! She relaxes and gives me a full explanation. "I have one last stage of testing. Safety, preservation, shelf-life, that kind of thing. That should take about six months. Then, theoretically, the product would be ready for FDA approval or patenting. I understand that the government process for that can take a while."

Well, I might as well show Her I plan to help. "How much would the last stage of testing cost?"

I keep my eyes on Her, but Dalton jumps in with the numbers. Clearly, She is not comfortable asking for money, not even for Herself. I listen to Dalton only peripherally because She walks to the podium and starts stacking Her papers. She is getting ready to end this. Before I can stop myself, I interrupt Dalton.

"Ms. Steele, you are graduating next week?"

The guards go up in Her eyes again. "Yes, Sir."

"So, if we were to fund the university for the last stage of your testing, who would oversee it?" I don't give two fucks about what happens with my money. I am trying to learn about Her in these indirect ways, without Her shutting down.

But instead of calming Her, my question empties Her beautiful eyes. The vibrant bluish purple twinkles less and less, until it dies down. I have to grasp the desk to resist the impulse of going to Her… and do... something.

Dalton jumps in again. "We have already hired a replacement for Ms. Steele. He will have big shoes to fill but she has agreed to stay on for the next month until she has trained him."

Dalton's words implode like an IED in my brain. Is She moving on? Where the fuck is She going? I just found Her. My blood blisters in my throat. "But she knows the project better than anyone. Why would you hire a replacement?"

"Ah, well, yes, ideally, Ms. Steele would have stayed on. However, due to circumstances outside of our control, she cannot." Dalton's voice wavers. Ana looks at him once, and smiles a non-smile.

"What circumstances?" I ask Her, keeping my tone cool enough for Dalton to know I don't want to hear from him.

She swallows once and I can almost hear the thud of the gates in Her eyes as they shut down. She has cut all access. Unreachable. "Private reasons, Mr. Grey."

I am a mess inside, and I know it. But something vicious prevails over everything else. Anger. Anger that She is keeping Herself from me, even with something so small as an answer to a simple question. It is out of proportion, I don't deny it. My anger is always hair-breadth. But now, it's somehow more cutting. Not like it's my first weapon, but my last. What other defenses would I have against Her if anger leaves me?

"I see. And you would be unwilling to reconsider your priorities even for a few months to see the project through?" I spit out before I can stop myself. Even I can hear the ice in my voice. I try to calm down but cannot. Irrationally, I expected that once I found Ana, of course She would be mine. It never occurred to me that She would resist me in everything, from looking at me, to answering my questions.

She swallows hard again and takes a small breath."I would love nothing more, Mr. Grey. But unfortunately, it is not possible."

Her voice wavers once, and Her knees are locked but otherwise, She stands straight like She did the first time I saw Her. With that same dignity of one who turns the other cheek. But this time, I delivered the blow. _Fucking asshole_, I rage at myself.

"We do not question Ana's commitment or qualifications, Mr. Grey. In fact, we extended her an offer of employment. She has a 4.0 GPA and her project speaks for itself. Trust me, I would have hired her as an associate professor tomorrow if I could," Dalton says, and from his tone, it's obvious he does not like my prying. I don't give a fuck.

Ana twists Her hands once, and then looks at me with something like panic. I have the impression that this look is meant for me alone. "Mr. Grey, there is no reason to doubt the Department's ability to oversee the final stage. I have full confidence in Professor Dalton. It has been his guidance that made this happen. Please, do not consider changing the funding. I… I'm willing to provide guidance going forward, if that will make things better."

I expected Her to say something about Herself and Her plans, but no. She is begging me on behalf of others, obviously worried that I would leave them in the lurch. I'd give three times the amount if it would calm Her down.

"I will not pull the funding, Ms. Steele. There is no reason for your concern. But this is your invention. Surely, you want to patent it or profit from it somehow?"

Suddenly, I want to shake Her. Does She have no sense of self-profit at all? Of self-preservation?

"Well, once it is finished, then I will patent it. As for profit, I have to be honest, it was not my intention. When it is done, I will consider what I will do with it. It seems wrong to make money from food when so many lack it." Her voice trails off. It's the most unguarded thing She has ever said to me, and in that, I realize Her true spirit. Selfless, aware, giving. As if Her brain and looks were not enough, She had to have the heart too.

"What are your plans after you graduate?" I ask. I know She may shut down again because this is personal but perhaps if I keep it along the lines of school and projects, She will be more forthcoming.

No such luck. "No plans at the moment. I am sure life will take its course."

Damn it. _Give me something. Anything. Something about you_. Samson leans over to me to say something, probably wondering if he can marry Her, but I raise my hand to stop him.

"Ms. Steele, we would gladly offer you a position at my company should your _priorities_ change." I say, emphasizing_ priorities_ because I am irrationally furious that She is choosing something else over Her invention, Her school and – let's own it – me.

Her eyes turn into hard amethysts but She smiles kindly. "Thank you, Mr. Grey. I will keep that in mind. Are there any other questions about _my project_?" She, too, emphasizes the word, putting an end to any discussion about Her. In that subtle inflection, I realize She understood my disapproval perfectly. Understood it, but disagreed with it, as if it chafed at a fresh wound.

Samson is all over the place. "I don't think so, Ms. Steele. Your materials are very clear and I have this handy packet, which frankly I will study in detail myself. I do thank you for making time for this when you are probably wrapping up your final year here."

"My pleasure," She says softly with Her Mona Lisa smile, and looks away quickly. Her paperclip is now a straight wire. Her chest rises up slightly as if She hopes for nothing more but to breathe. The sight of Her reaching for breath puts an end to my anger like the suicide pills we carried in the desert in case of capture. I made this way harder than it needed to be for Her. _Fix this now, Grey, and fix whatever empties Her eyes this way. _

"No further questions for now, Ms. Steele," I say. She looks up and, in that moment, I can swear She is thanking me. I stand, my muscles protesting at the sudden movement after being locked over the last hour to prevent me from going to Her. Samson and Dalton stand too. I want to reach Her first but Samson the Asshole Who Is Lucky to Be Alive and Have a Job cuts me off and takes Her hand.

"It has been a true pleasure, Ms. Steele. Keep up the good work." He shakes Her hand again, as if four times were not enough, and turns to greet Dalton. Good. Go. Leave. I am trying to be alone with Ms. Steele here, after fucking everything up.

She sees me and extends Her hand first. Amidst the insanity, the gesture pleases me enormously. She wants to touch me. Maybe in a formal get-the-hell-away-from-me-as-soon-as-possible way, but still, She wants to touch me. I take Her hand, needing to remind myself to shake it, not hold it.

"Thank you for your support of the Department, Mr. Grey."

_Okay, be human now._ "My pleasure, Ms. Steele. It has obviously gone to some incredible things. I am impressed with your project." It's true, even if it is an understatement. It's what I should have said to Her from the beginning. Instead of berating Her for Her choices, I should have told Her that I have seen nothing like Her in my 32 years. Superbly perfect in every minute flaw, as Emilia Mola would say.

At the small compliment, She blooms. There is no other way to put it. Something so small as a kind of word and She welcomes you back like the prodigal. She thanks me, and smiles, and the rose-blush creeps up her Botticelli cheekbones. I turn to Dalton immediately, lest I do something stupid like kiss Her senseless here and now.

"Thank you for inviting me, David," I say, and I mean it.

He smiles back. "The gratitude is all ours, Mr. Grey."

Helpless, I look at Her one last time. She smiles brilliantly, as if She cannot believe She lived to tell the tale. I have to force my legs to move away from Her. It's only the thought that my next step is to find and destroy whatever is haunting Her that releases my feet. That, and a creeping dread that some things, some truly beautiful things, are best left unsullied, if the rest of us are to believe in the existence of a dream.

I walk out of the room, afraid of sullying the very air She breathes.

* * *

Thank you to Lulu Price for being my blog and chapter tester and Sasha Cameron for helping me set up my blog and ALL MY FSOG FB girls and BLOG girls for being so awesome and supportive and for always reviewing and commenting even when FF gives them grief. THANK YOU!


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